


Improbable

by jillyfae



Series: Façades [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anger, Angst, Blood, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Circle of Magi, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Separations, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 24,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What we want, what we choose, what we do ... seldom leads to what we most desire.  Especially if you're a mage in Kirkwall, and have to hide your own desires from the people around you.</p><p>These are truths Bethany Hawke has known her entire life; but that doesn't mean she likes them.  Or will accept them, even as she spends her years haunted by the most impossible of relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **part one: endurance**

Bethany sat in the pew, hands folded, head bowed.  Listening to the Chant.  Not really the words though, just the melody, the feel of the music blossoming around her.  
  
Sebastian's voice above the rest, clearer than the parishioners, richer than the Sisters, the burr of his accent lost among the familiar words.  
  
Maker, it was beautiful.    
  
It hurt so much she wanted to cry.  
  
Or stand up and shout out a confession for all to hear.

_She gasps as his hips snap hard against her arse, hair falling in front of her face in tangled chunks, hands splayed against the stone before her.  His hands are hard, his fingers so very strong as he holds her hips precisely where he wants them.  The lyrium in his skin sings to her senses, an extra tingle through her body, a constant hum underlying the slap of skin, the growl of his voice, the heat building between her legs._

_"You always close your eyes," his voice is as rough as his movements, right behind her ear, his chest pressed against her back, her body aching as muscles clench, as her arms and legs start to tremble from the strain of bracing herself against him._

_"They're open now," she breathes out, looking down past her breasts, her stomach, to see the crown of his cock just slide into view between her legs, wet from her slick, a bead of his own moisture still clinging at the tip.  She moans, and then watches it disappear as he pulls back again, the entire hard length of him rubbing against her clit, back and forth as he thrusts against her from behind._

_"They won't be for long."  His growl sends a liquid pulse of heat down her spine, scalding beneath the skin._ Fenris has such a good voice.  But not the right voice, not his, not the one I want, never that one... _And then even such wistful thoughts flee as his fingers pull, and he shifts his feet, and his next thrust goes up inside her, hard and fast.  And he's right, she closes her eyes as her body shudders around him._

_"Maker," she moans, feeling him, wanting him, wanting someone else, dreaming of Sebastian and Fenris and cocks and lyrium and fucking and she comes, barely keeping her feet in the Darktown alley, head falling against rough stone with a thud.  He pulls out with a groan, barely in time, his seed shooting the wall between her legs, dripping down to pool in the dirt._

_"I fuck them for you, Sebastian."_

That would embarrass too many people.  Not just herself.  But, oh, she woke up every morning with a storm inside her heart, and no matter how she wore herself out on other bodies, it was never enough.  Never eased, never calmed.  And she could no longer seek solace in the booth, as he would no longer listen to her, no longer torment himself with her words, though they had been the only relief she could find.  
  
She hated him for that.    
  
But still she loved him.    
  
And still she couldn't stay away.  
  
Her mother lauded her strengthening faith, her increasingly frequent visits to the Chantry, ignoring the truth.   _My mother is blind, lost in dreams of Father.  Not that I can blame her for that.  I'm lost in dreams of a man I've never had at all.  How pathetic is that?_  
  
The verse came to an end, _Trials, how appropriate_ , and she lifted her head.  
  
To look directly into his eyes, staring at her from the nave.  
  
She could feel those eyes like a crack in her heart, and her breasts were heavy and her stomach tight just from meeting his gaze.  Maker, she still wanted him more than breathing.  More than safety.  She'd cheerfully call an ice-storm in the middle of the Chantry and spend the rest of her presumably Tranquil life in the Gallows if it meant she'd get to feel him inside her.  
  
 _At this point I'd probably do it just for a kiss._  
  
She realized now she was even more pathetic than she had thought, unable to move, petrified with hope, still standing in her pew, still staring across the backs of the other benches, still trapped in his gaze, feeling her nipples tighten as she waited.  All for him. _Please, Sebastian, please, make a move.  Any move.  Please._  
  
Please.  
  
Instead his eyelids dropped, slowly, until his eyes were hidden, and she shivered at the loss.  His shoulders tightened, losing an ease she hadn't even noticed until it was gone, and then he turned and walked away, out the back of the nave.  Away from her.  Always away.  Coward.  
  
She spun on her toes and stalked her own way out of the Chantry, ignoring the damp between her legs, the burn in her eyes, the ache of a tired body and a broken heart.  She started down the first of many many stairs, tracing a slow but steady path down to the depths of Darktown.  
  
To Anders.  
  
To what little relief she could force out of him.  
  
Fenris was out on the Wounded Coast with Luise and Aveline. And Merrill, of all people.   _Because of course I'm too fragile.  Too delicate.  Never mind fire balls and healing spells.  She'll just cart a bunch of potions and take the lunatic dalish blood mage and bleed all over the rocks if she gets into trouble.  Great plan, sister.  Brilliant._  But that meant Anders was still in town.  Her mother was visiting an old friend up in Hightown for a few days, and as Gamlen tried his damnedest to ignore them all...  
  
She could spend hours locked in Anders' back room, and no one else need ever know.  
  
No one else cared.  
  
Probably never had.  Never would.  Never could.  
  
 _"I love you."_  
  
Rough whispers in the dark didn't matter.  Actions did, and he took every opportunity to turn away from her.   _Why can't I do the same?_


	2. Chapter 2

"We're leaving. Two days."   
  
Bethany paused, leggings barely up to her knees, and lifted her head to look at Anders, the curve of his naked back, the loose line of his breeches settling low around his hips, tousled hair tickling the line of his shoulders. Such a pretty man. Not the right one, but nice enough, nonetheless. _Deserves better than this._  
  
He was standing on the other side of his small room, all of a pace and a half, head bowed and one hand braced against the shelves of jars and bottles and boxes of supplies lining his wall. She shifted uncertainly on his bed, the rough muslin of cheap sheets rubbing against the skin on the underside of her thighs. They didn't normally bother much with talking, and she hadn't a clue what to say, so she settled for a light, questioning _hmm?_ in the back of her throat.  
  
"The Deep Roads." Anders stopped again.  
  
"I know all about the expedition, Anders." Bethany looked back down at her legs, gave her leggings a hard yank up her thighs before standing up to pull them over her hips. "You going to try a complete sentence?"  
  
"You could come?"  
  
"What, so you have someone to relieve your frustrations out on after walking behind my sister all day?" She kicked carefully at the tangle of fabric and leather on the floor, trying to find her blouse. "You do so like to torment yourself by watching her arse."  
  
Anders made an unhappy sort of grunt in the back of his throat, but didn't turn around and meet her eyes. _Can't really deny it, now can he?_ "You're a powerful mage, Bethany. More help's always good, underground."  
  
"Luise's convinced it's too dangerous for her little sister." Bethany didn't even try to stop her lip from curling, or hide the bitter edge to her words. "And I doubt listening to you or Fenris fuck me in the shadows would endear her to any of us."  
  
"Fenris?" He finally moved, turning around sharply to glare at her. "Fenris?!"  
  
"What, you thought you were the only one?" She laughed, a short unpleasant sound. "I like cock, Anders. Yours. His. Meeran's." _Sebastian's, if the Maker would be so kind. But He's not. Bastard._ She wasn't completely sure if that last thought was aimed at Brother Vael or the Maker Himself. _Probably both_. "Did you think Luise got us away from the Red Iron? A heavy blade and a mage staff under his control, talented enough to kill a squad of bandits without getting a scratch? She's not that persuasive, and you know it."  
  
"But you are."  
  
It wasn't really a question, but she answered anyways. "Why yes, I'm quite good." Bethany's eyes flickered, gaze traveling down towards his groin and back up again. "I'm so very fond of swallowing, after all."  
  
Anders grunted again, eyes flashing hot for just a moment before the frown across his eyebrows hid them in shadow. "You're so different, when we're alone," he muttered.  
  
She snorted. "Carver never did understand how I could put on a smile for our parents, for Luise. But if the slightest attempt to complain gets you reminded how lucky you should feel to be free, to have your family looking after you, keeping you safe, keeping you secret." She gagged slightly, couldn't continue, the ache for her missing brother stealing her voice away, locking it tight in her chest. So instead she shrugged. Swallowed 'til her throat loosened. _Pretty sure he gets the point._ "Catch more flies with honey, isn't that how it goes?"  
  
"So you'll stay behind, let her coddle you, even though you could easily take care of yourself?"  
  
"I'll take care of mother, while she's gone." Bethany stepped forward, the thin silk of her breast-band the only thing stopping her nipples from rubbing up against the skin of his chest, glaring up into his amber eyes. "And it's not like the Deep Roads sound like fun, Anders. You'd stay behind too, Ser-runaway-Grey-Warden, if you could get away with it, now wouldn't you?"  
  
She could see the pulse in his neck as she leaned in even closer, the breath of her words blowing across his stubbled cheek. She could feel it in his shoulders as his hands clenched, as he couldn't decide if he wanted to fight or fuck.  
  
 _I'm always up for more fucking, Anders._   
  
She tilted her head to aim her whisper in his ear. "But you can't bear to disappoint Luise, now can you? Even though she'll never let you between her legs, even though she'll never wrap her lips around that wonderful thick cock of yours, you just can't stop yourself from jumping when she calls, can you?"  
  
One strong hand tangled in her hair, pulling back with a sharp yank that brought tears to her eyes, caused her thighs to tremble as lust curled low in her stomach.   
  
"And who do you think about?" He shot a whisper of his own against her skin, voice dark and ruthless. "When I take you, deep and hard, who do you imagine? When my seed burns down your throat after I've pushed you to your knees, who do you pretend I taste like?"   
  
_Sebastian, always Sebastian._  
  
"That's my secret," she spoke up, breath heavy, eyes closed as she leaned into the pull of his hand, her neck taut as her head tilted further back. "Just mine."  
  
"You know all my secrets Bethany." She moaned at the sharp tug as he bit her earlobe. "And I know so few of yours."  
  
"I only have the one, Anders." Her breath caught as his mouth moved to her neck, sharp then soft, teeth then lips, warm breath followed by wet tongue. "But I think I'll keep it."  
  
"I think that's a challenge." His arms tightened around her, twisting sideways until she was pressed hard against his hip, his skin hot against her stomach, his thigh pushed up between her legs. A broken gasp escaped her throat, surprise and heat forcing it out of her mouth. "I think I need to fuck it out of you."  
  
He shoved her away, hard. She stumbled back far enough for her legs to catch on the frame behind her and she fell, landing awkwardly on the bed they'd only recently abandoned. Her breath was an uneven heave through her chest as he grabbed at her knees, catching the fabric of her leggings and yanking. She obligingly lifted her arse up off the mattress so the cloth would move down her thighs, tight against her skin. "What makes you think you can manage that?"  
  
"Warden." He shifted his grip, pulling slowly and steadily now to free her knees. "Mage." A flicker of lightning snapped from his fingertips along her skin, and she shivered as he got her pants past her shins to her ankles. "Stamina and spells." He eased her feet free, then stood, an arrogant smirk creasing his face as he winked at her. He dropped his breeches off his hips, stepping out of them to abandon them on the floor with the rest of their clothing as he crawled onto the bed between her legs, all lean muscle and hard cock, blonde and golden and sex. "I'll take you over and over until you can't stand it anymore, until you can't hold it in, and his name slides past those talented lips of yours."  
  
"Why do you w--" Her voice caught and her back arched as he slid a finger around her smalls, pushing inside without warning, pulling out again as she gasped, trying to lift off the bed to follow him, to bring him back. His hands went back to her hips instead, sliding her smalls off her legs, and she gathered her brain back together enough to finish her sentence. "Why do you want to know?"  
  
"I don't, particularly." He smiled again, twisted and amused and calculating as he pulled himself back up the bed, until his entire body was hovering above her, warmth not quite touching. "I just want an excuse to fuck you senseless." He leaned in close, a harsh whisper near her ear, skin just brushing against her chest. "Remind you what you'll be missing while I'm gone."  
  
She was going to make a smart comment about how he was just tormenting himself with what he couldn't have while he was gone, but he'd shifted his weight and tilted his hips, and Bethany groaned and spread her legs instead, encouraging him as his hand slid between them, lining himself up and pushing his cock inside her. He was thick and hot, rubbing slowly against her, filling her as he eased his way in, and in again, further and deeper, grinding them together.  
  
He didn't pull out again; instead he used his whole body to push her down, keep her hard against the mattress, hot breath against her neck, hands rough around her fingers, arms and legs and chest heavy against her skin. He'd pinned her so tightly she couldn't move, her entire body straining up, trying to push, trying to lift, trying to help, but only able to tremble beneath him.  
  
His hips kept rocking, just a little, just enough that she could feel every shift as he rubbed back and forth inside her, over and over, so good she couldn't breathe, mouth wide open and eyes rolled back as she panted, desperate, wordless, pleading.  
  
Anders laughed, breath rough and ragged beside her head, his forehead turning to touch her temple. "Such a wonderful body you have Bethany, so soft, so hot, so willing, enjoying everything I do to you." He rolled his hips and she tried to groan again, but she couldn't get enough air and it came out weak and raspy.  
  
"Has he ever filled you up, like I do, this man you imagine when I take you? Is he someone you lost, or someone you've never had?"  
  
She moaned wordlessly, hips tilting against his body, and he laughed again. "No answer for me?" He let go of her hand, his callused palm sliding down her arm, then up her shoulder, to rest on top of her neck. "Last chance, Bethany."  
  
She shook her head.  
  
His hand pushed down against her throat, fingers placed just so.  
  
She tried to gasp, could get any air at all, her body trying to thrash, trying to push him up, but she was too well pinned. His hips rocked, she was full to bursting and he just kept rubbing, back and forth, and she couldn't groan, she couldn't sigh, she couldn't let anything out, and the pressure built and built, harder and heavier. She didn't want it to stop, never, ever, heat and pleasure and pain, black spots dancing in front of her eyes, her chest burning, her body aching, straining. Her free hand wrapped around his wrist, nails digging into his arm, but she didn't pull, didn't claw. Didn't tap the pattern they'd decided on months ago, if ever one of their games went too far and she wanted out.  
  
She'd never tapped their safety, never wanted out, never wanted to stop.  
  
Always needed more, climbing higher and higher towards some impossible summit she would never reach.  
  
Finally, it was too much, too strong. She broke, she fell, her body shaking, everything going black as she crashed.


	3. Chapter 3

_Warm._  
  
Warm air against her skin.  
  
Warm light, soft against closed eyelids.  
  
Warm thoughts slowing her brain.  
  
Warm muscles relaxed and limp, resting on a bed.  
  
Warm breath between her legs, and she twitched, startling herself with the motion.  The touch of a tongue, strong and wet and perfect, light against her clit.  She groaned when the tongue pushed harder, licking, still gentle, but more.  Just a little.  Just enough.    
  
She couldn't seem to open her eyes, to move, to do anything but accept, to take the pleasure of that mouth.  She didn't know where she was.  Who she was?  Who she was with?  
  
Oh Maker, the tongue moved down, slid inside her, pushing deep, and then she felt a touch against her clit again, and her hips jerked up against the pressure, grinding the nose against her sex, forcing the tongue even deeper, and she felt the shiver of pleasure all the way through her belly, her thighs.  
  
It hurt, just a little, an acrid edge to the feeling, as if her muscles had been pushed too hard, too often, but that just made it all the sweeter, and she settled even deeper into the mattress.  
  
She'd been dreaming of Sebastian.  
  
She was always dreaming of Sebastian.  
  
This was better than her usual dreams.  
  
So much better.    
  
The nose shifted, rubbing more, and the pleasure tightened, focusing in on just that spot, the tongue a softer counterpoint in the background.  Her heart felt light, as if she'd forgotten something that used to weigh it down, and she hummed, body rocking gently down against the bed, up against the mouth.    
  
 _Sebastian._  
  
The pleasure rolled through her, soft and warm, her body flowing towards an orgasm it was almost too worn out to find, closer and closer, aching and slow.  
  
 _Please, oh yes_ , she tried to talk, voice caught inside a throat gone rough and tight, so all that escaped was a ragged groan.  
  
"Like that, do you?"  The voice was soft, smug, vibrating against her skin.   _And wrong.  Wrong voice._  She opened her eyes as she remembered, dark ceiling, cheap sheets, and his mouth clamped down on her clit, sucking as a finger slid inside, sparking electricity along the walls of her cunt.  
  
She screamed as she came, wordless, awful, perfect, painful, body shattering with pleasure as her heart broke in two, again, again, she couldn't stand it, _Anders, not Sebastian, never Sebastian._  
  
"Not so quiet that time, were you?"  Anders chuckled against her stomach, working his way up her body, lips and tongue savoring her breasts, until he got up to her face and he stopped, silent.  Then his thumb, rough and soft at once, tracing a path from her eye to her temple.  "Bethany, I'm sorry, what did I, are you?"  The soft warmth of a healing spell, easing her throat.  Doing nothing at all for the spear of ice piercing her chest.  " _You're crying_."  
  
She swallowed hard, ignoring her tears, ignoring the burn, grabbing his wrists and forcing herself to stare into his eyes.  "Do it again," she gasped, voice still ragged, barely under her control, even without a sore throat to inhibit it.  "Promise me.  When you get back, you'll do it again."  
  
"But, Bethany," his eyes were wide, blue starting to flicker under his skin.  Despite their odd relationship, he was a healer first, close to losing control at the thought he'd failed at that most basic of tenants.   _First, do no harm._  "I hurt you."  
  
"You didn't," she hissed, fingers tightening, nails digging into the gap between the bones of his arms until he winced.  "I forgot where I was, I forgot everything in the way, I thought you were him."  His head lifted, just a little, eyes narrowing with wounded pride even while his shoulders relaxed with relief.  "And it was worth it, worth every moment of the crash when I remembered, to have that instant where I could pretend.  Promise me, you'll do it again.  Please."  
  
She was practically sobbing, and she released his arms to wrap herself around him, hands against his back, face buried in his shoulder.  "Please, Anders.  For just an instant, you made me free."  
  
She felt him shudder at that, unable to resist that word, that thought, a mage unshackled by fear.  "Of course," his voice was soft and rough, barely audible right above her head.  "Of course, Bethany."


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris managed to draw her aside, that last night at the Hanged Man, the night before they were to leave.  He kissed her, lips soft for once, giving, not taking.  He pulled back, hands light against her shoulders.  "Be... careful, while we're gone.  It would be.  Unfortunate.  To succeed in the Deep Roads, and yet."  He shrugged, eloquent with his body in a way he seldom managed with words.    
  
"Really?  Someone might think you care."  Her voice was not nearly as easy as she'd intended, soft and gentle instead of teasing.    
  
"Well."  The hint of a smile flashed in his eyes.  "You are, perhaps, not so bad.  For a mage."  
  
She swallowed, feeling oddly off kilter.  "You're not going to go complicating things with feelings, now, are you?"   _Please, Maker, no, don't fall for me_.  She felt her heart speeding up, panicked at the thought of that mess, of anyone trying to find common ground with her, her broken heart, her ragged edges.  She'd hurt him, and he deserved better.  
  
A rough breath and a shake of his head made her focus, look at his face as he considered his words.  "I enjoy the relief, certainly."  
  
She huffed an almost laugh.   _That's one way to put it._  
  
The almost smile in his eyes quirked slightly at the edges of his mouth.  "And I find a certain... ease in your company.  I do not need to pretend to be anything other than what I am."  
  
Bethany nodded.  
  
"But I do not wish or need for more than that."  
  
"Huh."  She smiled, reaching up to place gentle fingers on top of his hands.  "Who knew.  Friends with a crazy Tevinter warrior."  
  
"Yes."  He paused, as if rolling the word around in his thoughts.   _Friends_.  "Do not tell anyone."  
  
"Doubt they'd believe me."  She grinned, leaned up to kiss his cheek.  "Thank you, Fenris.  And be careful yourself, down there."  
  
"Of course," he agreed, an abrupt nod before he spun around and left.    
  
 _Gracious as always, Fenris._  
  


* * *

  
  
They said farewell again later, in their more usual style.  Her skirts were hiked up past her waist, her smalls torn and discarded on the floor, her breasts rubbing against the rough wood of the barrel he'd bent her over in the dim darkness of Corff's back room after everyone else had left.  
  
She loved being taken from behind, the sound of his growl traveling along her spine, his cock long and hard, rubbing against the front walls of her cunt as he slammed into her over and over, that remarkable strength of his wiry frame all focused on fucking her, on ripping gasps and groan from her throat with each thrust, until finally she shuddered her relief, and he took his own.  
  
He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling hard enough it hurt, forcing her spine to curve as she lifted her head until he could kiss her, lips brutal on her mouth.  His other hand wrapped around her hips, rubbing her clit, forcing another orgasm out of her, fast and dirty, her legs shaking as he braced her against his chest.  
  
And then he walked her home, as there were people stupid enough to think Bethany Hawke looked too pretty to take care of herself, and singed or frozen corpses might attract the templars.  After all, not even in Lowtown was anyone stupid enough to think Fenris wouldn't kill them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ignoring gameplay requirements, one assumes Hawke would want as many people in her little band of mercenaries for fighting darkspawn as possible. SO YES. I'm assuming they all went. Except for Bethany. 'Cause this particular Hawke is overprotective like that. (And caves whenever confronted by upset Leandra.)

The first week after the Expedition left was quiet.   
  
The entire first moon, Bethany managed not to worry. Much.  
  
Still no word.   
  
It was early yet, of course, the entrance was almost a sennight away, the sight underground another week after that. There was absolutely no reason for them to be back yet. But Bethany had a feeling. Something bad was going to happen. Had already happened? There was a shiver down her spine, a tingle at her fingertips.  
  
Her mother, oddly enough, seemed convinced they would be fine, buoyed by her initial first successful steps back into Kirkwall politics. People remembered her name, and her parents, and the Viscount was, apparently, cautiously optimistic.  
  
 _If she can bring the gold. Which means, only if the Expedition is successful._  
  
Leandra had gotten too good at living in her own little world ever since her husband died; Bethany could not find her hope comforting. She missed Fenris and Anders and Isabela and Varric. And even Merrill. Definitely Aveline. Occasionally even Luise. Though not her tendency to snore.  
  
It still hurt every morning, to wake to a world without Carver in it. She didn't think she'd make it if she had to wake to a world without her sister, either.  
  
She kept going to the Chantry to pray, to listen. Sebastian still wouldn't talk with her, too complicated, that, but periodically he'd sit next to her while she prayed, share her worry. She'd breathe in his scent, and sometimes it was enough she could relax, just a little. Eventually he'd leave, and her heart would twist, but that was normal enough to almost be comforting now, and her stomach had usually settled enough so she could go home and sleep.   
  
_Until I get woken up in the middle of the night by the mabari's very wet nose?_  
  
Bethany rolled over in her narrow bed, blinking at the big thick head panting at her. Marcus was Luise's dog, but Luise hadn't thought he'd do well in the Deep Roads, and didn't, apparently, trust Bethany to keep an eye on mother all by herself, so she'd convinced him to stay behind. He'd spent most of his time moping all over Leandra's feet, waiting for Luise to get back.  
  
 _You had to wait for the night I'm finally getting some decent sleep to decide to stop sulking, thanks ever so much, Dog._  
  
Mabari might not be able to talk, but the tilt of his head and the faint gleam of his eyes in the dark was quite expressive, so Bethany sighed as she dragged herself out of bed, grabbing the blanket to wrap around her shoulders as she went.   
  
He padded softly all the way to the door before turning to watch her progress. She scowled slightly, but Marcus wouldn't be bothering her without a good reason, so she sighed and carefully unbarred the door, trying not to make enough noise to wake her mother up in the other room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part two: disbelief**

He'd just stared at the messenger.  He couldn't feel his throat, much less force words through it, so he just stood there, parchment crumpled in his fist as the poor man leaned forward, hands on his knees, panting and covered in road dust, a trail of dried mud knocked from his boots visible across the flagstones.  
  
"Sebastian?"  He hadn't even noticed the Grand Cleric's familiar stride approaching from behind.  "Is there a problem?"  
  
 _All dead.  Everyone.  Is that a problem?_  "If you'll excuse me," he bowed and strode away, not really hearing the lift of surprise in her voice, or the messenger's ragged explanation.  
  
He couldn't bear to speak.  He didn't want to listen to the Chant, didn't want to kneel, or pray, or think, ever again.  It was much too soon to light a candle, _I would need so many candles_ , he was afraid he'd try to set the curtains ablaze instead, afraid he'd simply stand there and let the inferno take him.  
  
Take down the whole building, false promises of peace and happiness.  
  
Instead he changed his clothes, simple breeches, and went to the practice range at the Keep.  He shot for hours, until the sun was hidden behind the walls, his shoulders were trembling, his mind a fog of pain and exhaustion.  He ignored the Guardsmen lingering, Maecon's tentative approach, one hand lifted as if to stop him, or offer comfort.   _Or tear what little remains of my heart out of my chest and squeeze._  
  
Sebastian gave the guardsman one single shake of his head as he passed by, not wishing to let the poison of his thoughts spill over onto his occasional sparring partner.  He walked slowly around the edges of the Court outside, unwilling to return to his quarters in the Chantry, unsure what else he could do, where else he could go.  He found a bench against the wall, golden in the late afternoon light, and sat, watching the people go by.  
  
He sighed, slowly, feeling off balance from the weight of a single sheet of parchment crumpled up and shoved deep into his belt pouch.  It pulled against his body, twisting his heart and his hip, 'til he wasn't sure he'd be able to fight its influence and stand, ever again.  
  
It was starting to get dark, long cool shadows chasing the footsteps of the nobles and merchants and servants as they all fled behind doors and walls, safe from Kirkwall's dirty streets.  He probably ought to do the same.  
  
Not that he had anything on him to entice a mugging.  Just a light bow, (he'd left the blunt practice arrows at the barracks), his eating knife, (not even a proper dagger), and that single letter in his pouch.  He stretched one leg, tilting the toes up until his calf ached.   _I suppose someone might want my boots._  
  
He couldn't really bring himself to care.  
  
Might be a little embarrassing, making it across the Void, finding his family, all standing there, having fought for their lives, blood and pain and screams, _did they scream, or were they too surprised?_ , while he let himself get knifed for his leather.  
  
Not that the comparison wouldn't be a familiar one.  Disappointing his kin, even unto death.  
  
The thought of spending the night enclosed by heavy stone walls and incense made his stomach twist, bile hot and stinging in the back of his throat.  
  
He didn't know where else to go.  
  
He didn't know what else to do.  If he didn't think of something, eventually he'd start thinking again, and then he might start feeling again, and that...  
  
Well.  
  
He wasn't ready for that.  
  
Didn't ever want to be ready for that.  
  
Running away again.  Such a coward, the least of the Vaels.  
  
The last of the Vaels.  
  
His eyes ached, dry and burning.  
  
 _Bethany._  
  
Void.  
  
He'd felt that thought, fierce and passionate, a heavy beat of his heart, a tremble in hands that wanted more than anything to touch.  To be touched.  
  
It was cruel what he had done to her, unable to push her away, unable to resist her, and equally unable to give her anything of himself that mattered.  
  
 _Always the weak one.  Too weak even to bother with killing me._  
  
The murderers hadn't just attacked the Keep.  They'd taken out cousins in the country, in Tantervale, even the yearly caravan travelling back from Antiva led by his Uncle Willem.  Aunt Marisa, their Coraline...   But no one had come to Kirkwall.  
  
Yet.  
  
He felt the breath leave his lungs, his chest hollow.  Even well-paid mercenaries, which they'd have to be to have managed so many fronts at once, might have been uncertain about violence in the Grand Cathedral of the Free Marches.  Maybe they were here, just biding their time...  
  
Maybe he'd just sit here until they found him.  
  
That thought finally went too far, muscles clenching in his stomach in protest.  He might not be proud of living, but he'd be damned if he'd let them win.  His legs had taken him halfway across the Court before he even realized he was standing.  Might as well go for a walk.  Maker help anyone who got in his way.


	7. Chapter 7

He'd probably circled all of Kirkwall twice, but the ache in his feet seemed oddly distant.  He'd even been left completely alone; too visibly crazy, perhaps, to tempt the usual suspects out of lurking in alleys to press their attacks.  
  
He was back in Lowtown.  
  
He knew precisely where he was going, now, and he knew he shouldn't, and he knew it was selfish, but he couldn't seem to help it.  
  
He needed her to know.    
  
He needed to be the one who told her.  
  
Maybe then it would finally feel real, and he could move past this endless, numb spiral of aches and almost-thoughts and footsteps and feel something in his stomach besides cold slick nausea.  
  
Maybe, just this once, he could let himself feel the touch of her hand against his skin, could accept the comfort of her presence without flinching back from the confusion of lust and need and regret and sorrow he always saw in her eyes, felt echoing through his heart, heavy with the knowledge it was all his fault.  
  
He made it up the steps, then paused before the doorway.  He didn't wish to see her mother, or her uncle.  Only her.    
  
He couldn't seem to think.  And despite years frequently spent getting in and out of places without permission or invitation, so long ago, the simple wooden door seemed like to stymie him completely.  
  
Staring blankly at the frame, the plane of wood, he caught himself counting knotholes, looking for splinters and cracks, wondering how old, what type of tree, how thick the planks... and then it opened, and all he could see, _the only thing I wish to see ever again_ , were warm brown eyes, dark and startled, and the blue shadows of night streaking across the curve of her cheeks.  
  
 _Maker, you're beautiful._  
  
She flinched, and he realized he'd spoken aloud, the soft growl of the mabari by her side underscoring his mistake.  
  
He stepped carefully to the side, lifting one hand, palm up, in apology.  She could step out beside him, or close the door on him.   _Your choice._  
  
Her eyes narrowed, a crease visible between her eyebrows even in the dim light.  He had to remind himself to breathe as he waited.  Her hip shifted slightly, nudging the dog ahead of her, and she stepped outside, closing the door softly behind her.  
  
"What is wrong with you, Sebastian?  If I didn't know better I'd think you were drunk!"  Her voice was quiet, her jaw tight, each word laced with anger and confusion and outrage.  Her hand was resting on the mabari's head.  As if she needed the comfort, or the protection.   _From me.  Because of me._  
  
He opened his mouth to apologize, to beg forgiveness.  Instead, he tasted her in the air between them.  
  
 _Lavender._  
  
His mother had insisted there be lavender in every pillow in the Keep, to soothe troubled minds for sleep, to keep the air fresh in the depths of winter.  
  
 _Now I suspect they all smell of blood._  
  
Finally, denial cracked and he felt it, every cut, every death, every drop of blood spilled.  Something must have shown in his face, his eyes, because Bethany's shoulders softened.  
  
"Sebastian."  Her voice was uncertain, this time, her eyes wide as her hand reached out, hovering just beyond his cheek.  "What's wrong?"  
  
 _Everything._  
  
He tried to speak, managing only a pained grunt as his knees hit the stone of the balcony.  He heard the soft whisper of his name as she stepped in close, her fingers warm and gentle against his scalp.  He wrapped his arms around her hips, her stomach soft against his nose, his eyes burning wet.    
  
 _Except you._  
  
She smelled of lavender and lightning, the plain muslin of her nightgown a thin shield preventing the touch of skin, but allowing the warmth of her body to soothe nonetheless.  
  
He wasn't quite crying, but he wasn't quite not, and he couldn't speak, just listened to her soft shhh's, just felt the tug of her hands as she stroked his hair, over and over, until he could swallow the fire in his throat and speak again.  
  
"Dead," he whispered eventually, muffled against her body.    
  
Her fingers stopped, and he felt her body tense.  "Who's dead?"  
  
"Everyone."  
  
"Sebastian." Her voice was shaking but her grip was firm as she tugged on his hair, pulling him back so she could drop to her knees and look him in the face.  "You're scaring me.  What happened?  What do you know?"  
  
"I know I love you."  He couldn't seem to think, kneeling on uneven stone, her face so close to his, her voice a caress against his skin.  He heard his own voice, oddly light and blank, didn't know what he was saying, couldn't comprehend the words until after he heard them echo back against his ears.   "The only one in all the world left.  Such perfection, my lovely Bethany, so warm and clever.  I shouldn't love you.  I'll probably get you killed too.  That would be too much, I think, I'd not be able to keep going."  
  
"Sebastian," her voice made him ache, so soft and hopeless and beautiful, the slightest shake in her breath as she spoke his name.  "You can't just say... how can you..."  Her head dropped to his shoulder, her body trembling against him.  "Every day, I try to pretend I can live my life without you, and then you say such things."  
  
His arms moved all of their own accord, unable to resist the soft curve of her back, wrapping themselves around her.  She turned her head, her nose brushing against his neck, damp heat behind her eyelashes fluttering against his skin.    
  
He groaned, his arms tightening as his head leaned sideways to rest against her.  He could smell her hair, feel the strands rubbing beneath his cheek.  He closed his eyes and tried to pretend they were other people, another place, another time.  Tried to resist the desire clawing at his heart to turn, just the slightest tilt of his head, until his lips could touch her.  
  
"There was a coup."  He sounded more like himself, that time.  He kept his eyes closed as he felt her tighten in his arms, as he kept himself still.  Swallowed, once, to loosen his throat enough to continue.  "In Starkhaven."  
  
"All dead," she repeated softly, and he almost shivered from the feel of her words against his skin.  "I'm so sorry."  He could feel the pain in her voice, her sorrow easing his own.  And then she was silent, letting him rest, letting him hold her, giving him a chance to not think, to not feel, to breathe a proper lung full of air.  
  
Eventually he forced himself to let go, to ease back on his toes.  She lifted her head just as he turned his, and her mouth was close enough that if he licked his lips he would probably taste her as well.  
  
Which he wanted to do badly enough he stopped caring, for just a moment, about his dead family.  Stopped caring about anything except how very much he wanted, needed, _can't_.  He could feel his muscles trembling in his arms and back.  He couldn't seem to pull away, but he could stop himself from taking that one last inch and touching...  
  
"Did you know," she whispered softly, her breath against his mouth, her hand hovering just past his cheek.  "I dream about you, at night.  About what might be?"  Her hand shifted, just enough, fingers light against his skin.  "This could just be another dream?"  
  
Her lips were as light as her breath, soft and perfect, the brush of her mouth enough to warm him, body and soul, until the ache in his heart and his lungs was too much to bear, and he pulled back, his eyes unable to be still as he looked at her face, cheeks flushed and mouth slightly open and eyes so dark, so sad, looking back at him.  
  
He was struck, again, by how very young she was, breasts high and firm and perfect, that body barely nineteen, and yet so strong, so wise.  And here he was, a dirty old man, a decade her senior, as desperate and lost and stupid as he'd been at ten and six.  
  
"I can't," he whispered back, and it was his turn to hold shaking fingers above her cheek.  "All I have is my word, all that's left of me is my duty to the Chantry and my love for you."  
  
Her mouth closed, tight, eyes blinking as she ducked her head and leaned back.  "And if the former should lose you the latter?"  
  
"I will always love you Bethany."  He dropped his hand, knowing that the slightest touch would only make it worse.  "Nothing could ever change that.  I pray every day that you could stop feeling the same.  That you could be free.  Could be happy."  
  
He couldn't recognize the sound she made, unsure if it was a sob or a laugh or a swallowed scream.  "I'm a mage, I'll never be free."  She lifted her face back up to stare at him, face hard and still, cheeks dry and pale.  "I would be happy with loved."  
  
"And what good are words of love from a man who breaks his every vow to say them?"  Sebastian shook his head, pushed himself back up to his feet.  "We would destroy ourselves before we begin."  
  
He reached a hand out, uncertain if she'd take it, unable to refrain from offering, one simple touch to help her to her feet.  
  
"What if it was worth it?  To have had someone to hold onto, for as long as it lasted?"  She took his hand as she spoke, pulled hard and fast, rising up on her toes, pressing her body against him, her lips to his.  This kiss was neither soft nor gentle, her breasts hot against his chest, her tongue inside his mouth, her fingers moving up his arm.  
  
He groaned into her mouth, one step, two, pressing her against the wall behind them, leaning into her heat, her touch, her taste, the slide of his tongue against hers, the feel of her arms against his shoulders, her hands pulling tightly on his hair, keeping him close.  
  
He could barely breathe, drowning in lavender and Bethany, her hair sliding between his fingers, catching on his skin, his lifeline back to land, to air, to sanity, all he had to do was tug, just enough to pull, tilt her head away from his, just enough he could lift his head and stop.  
  
He couldn't do it, his hands sliding deeper through dark strands to rest against her head, his thumbs brushing past her ears to feel the warm skin of her cheeks.  He was tasting the skin on her neck, listening to each perfect gasp and sigh, feeling her fingers digging into his shoulders.  
  
She whispered his name, so soft, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard, and he was hard, and hot, and desperate, kissing her again, and again, mouths wide and then the shocking scrape of teeth as she tugged at his bottom lip.  
  
The mabari growled, a soft bark as someone walked by, and he was suddenly a step away, panting, each breath like knives through his chest, cold and sharp, filling his body with air no longer warmed by Bethany.  
  
He stared at her, her eyes so wide and dark, cheeks flushed and lips full, her hand trembling as she held it in front of her mouth, her fingers not quite touching her mouth.  
  
He'd been about to take her, right there and then, against the wall in the middle of the night in Lowtown squalor, no thought for vows or comfort or care, only need and hurt and desire and want, oh how he wanted.    
  
Before he could manage a word, an apology, suggest a room at the inn, or even the roof, take a step closer to take her hands, a step back to flee, she closed her eyes and shook her head.  
  
"Bethany."  But his whisper was too late.  She'd snapped her fingers, and the dog had already followed her inside, the door barred behind them.  
  
He was always too late.


	8. Chapter 8

There was dust everywhere.   Under every layer of cloth and leather and scales, creased into lines on his gloves and boots.  
  
But he was almost there.  
  
 _Almost home._  
  
He'd spent almost a decade in Kirkwall, serving the Chantry, and he'd still always thought of Starkhaven as his home.  Where he'd been born, where he'd be sent when he died.  
  
But now he had someone he needed to see again.  
  
A life he needed to make right.  
  
He would probably never see Starkhaven again.  
  
He almost winced, at that.  He did tighten enough his horse danced a step between his legs before he managed to relax, to nudge the poor mare forward again.  
  
The cousin being installed in his father's place had been painfully glad to see him off after the funerals were done.  Sebastian was rather painfully glad to leave himself, every breath of mountain air reminding him of everyone he would never see again.  
  
Never hear their footsteps.  
  
Never earn their forgiveness.  
  
He sighed, softly.  He had a chance, though.  To earn Bethany's.  
  
He had to do this right. No glib words, no promises that could be lost or forgotten.  He had to see the Grand Cleric first.  Start the renunciation.  
  
Find a place to live.  
  
Find a job.  
  
 _Maker._  He hadn't had to worry about how to pay for his lodgings since the first time he ran away at sixteen.  
  
It was worth it though.  
  
Every morning he'd been away, when he'd prayed before rising, it was not the Maker who offered comfort, not Andraste's words which gave him the strength to face the day, but the thought of Bethany.  He could not give the Chantry his true devotion, and it demeaned his duty to try.  
  
He had to find another way.  
  
He hoped he wasn't too late.  
  
Even if he was, again, he knew he couldn't keep doing what he had been doing.  He had to change, or he would break.  The Chant could not ease the pain of his family's murders, or warm the heart of the woman he loved.  He could not bear to lie to her anymore.  Or to himself.  
  


* * *

  
  
Of course he was too late.  
  
Wasn't he always too late?  
  
Too slow, too thoughtless, too weak, too smug, too young, too old... too late.  
  
Leandra Hawke had her daughter's dark eyes, sorrow hiding behind every look, worry tight in her hands.  And yet she'd recognized something in him, when he'd said he'd come to see Bethany, had taken the time to greet him kindly, had sat him down and made him tea and told him of the Templars.  
  
And been very quietly shocked when he wasn't startled to learn her youngest was a mage.  
  
After he left, he considered going back to the Grand Cleric.  Attempting to apologize, to beg, to convince her he wanted to serve, to get himself assigned to the Gallows.  
  
But then he'd be going backwards, back to lying and cheating, back to charm as a means to an end rather than an attempt to ease another's feelings.  
  
Which was a stain on his soul he'd be willing to suffer, if it meant he could see Bethany again.  
  
But only if he could be sure it would make her stay easier.  He was almost certain it would make it worse, instead, her past haunting her every step, his voice a reminder of everything she could never have.  
  
If he'd only been faster.  Just a little, just enough to have seen her, to have told her...  
  
 _I love you Bethany._  
  
 _I'm sorry._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part 3: correspondence**

_Dearest Bethany,_  
  
 _I know of no way to deliver this letter to you, but my whole life is so uncertain, our own connection feels so unfinished... this is as close as I can come to finding answers._  
  
 _I left the Chantry._  
  
 _Struck out on my own._  
  
 _And then discovered that no one was bothering to do anything about the mercenaries who'd killed my family.  Probably would've gotten myself killed trying to take care of them myself, if not for your sister._  
  
 _Terrifying woman, your Luise._  
  
 _Needless to say, they're all dead now._  
  
 _She introduced me to Messere Tethras, who doesn't like me much, but is willing to help me trace the Flint Company's records, find out who hired them.  Not sure why Hawke talked him into it... maybe for your sake?  She knows I know you, and can obviously tell there was more to the acquaintance than I've let on._  
  
 _Perhaps I'll ask her to pass along this letter, if she can convince the Templars to let her visit?_  
  
 _She might open it though._  
  
 _(Hello Hawke?)_  
  
 _That puts a sudden damper on half the things I wished to say.  I shall have to consider..._  
  
 _yours,_  
  
 _Sebastian_


	10. Chapter 10

_Dear Sebastian,_   
  
_This is a stupid thing I'm doing.  But for all there are more people to talk to in here than I've had my entire life... I don't think I've ever felt so alone.  The mages have mostly all spent their entire lives here, have no concept of running and hiding and living and loving... only routine or not routine, being seen or not, always watched and never alone.  Friends and enemies and teachers and students and lovers and watchers... but never family._   
  
_The Templars aren't all bad, despite Anders' rhetoric.  The Knight-Captain, in particular, seems a good man.  Strict, a little paranoid, though nothing in comparison to the Knight-Commander, but he does his best to be fair.  His knights behave themselves._   
  
_When he's around, at least.  They're not all good either, despite Father's long lost friend, the one who helped him escape.  The one he named my brother after._   
  
_Maker, I miss Carver.  I miss his scowl, I miss his soul.  I feel like half a person, without him, and nothing ever makes it better._   
  
_But I keep trying.  Templars have such lovely scowls, you'd think it would help?  And yet._   
  
_You would not approve of how I've learned to deal with them, but I enjoy having power over them, especially as they are sure they are exercising their power over me.  I fall to my knees and sate their pride and lust, and they stalk off, so sure I'm cowed, and I laugh, for they only receive the pleasure I grant them._   
  
_It is such an easy distraction.  I feel the burn of their seed down my throat, and the innocent ones who do not enjoy such games are ignored for another day._   
  
_See?_   
  
_I told you you would not approve._   
  
_Or perhaps you do.  You never judged my confessions, after all.  I could hear your breath go ragged, the slide of cloth.  Would you like to hear about what I do to Templars to keep them in line?  How I consider their cocks at night when I'm alone, wondering what yours is like in comparison?_   
  
_I miss you._   
  
_I miss my mother and my sister, and yet, though we were only briefly friends, never lovers, always dancing around the edges of each other's lives, I miss you more._   
  
_I miss your eyes._   
  
_I miss the sound of your breathing, knowing that you were listening._   
  
_Would you listen to my confessions now, when there is no way to even pretend we could be free some day in the future?_   
  
_Why can I not hate you?  Why can I not forget you, even knowing I shall never see you again?_


	11. Chapter 11

_Dearest Bethany,_  
  
 _Your sister said she would be happy to pass along my greeting.  I managed to ask about gifts, and while she is a trifle suspicious of my motives, she snorted rather eloquently regarding the paranoia of Templars, and the inability to bring you so much as a flower as a present._  
  
 _So you will never see my letters._  
  
 _But that means no one else will either, and I may write them as I please.  Honest with myself at least.  At last._  
  
 _I am so sorry, Bethany, that it took me so long to face the obvious fact that following the letter of my vows with a bitter heart did neither myself nor the Chantry any favors._  
  
 _Nor you, of course._  
  
 _Though Grand Cleric Elthina is still upset with me.  She speaks of murder and vengeance, and I counter with duty and justice, which is certainly the truth as I see it._  
  
 _But she cannot know that I can never concede her position, because that is only half the truth.  I never tell her of love._  
  
 _You can see the shadows of the Gallows almost everywhere in Kirkwall.  I leave the Chantry every morning, and look up at the sky to see the towers, and I wonder where you are.  If you're awake, already, drinking tea and eating toast._  
  
 _Or reading, perhaps?  I have heard the library is splendid, locked though it is behind closed doors.  You are such a clever woman, I hope at least that is some pleasure for you._  
  
 _I try very hard not to think about your pleasures there, behind stone walls.  At least until I am safely locked behind my own.  I served a tour at the Gallows once, a lay brother at their chapel before I'd taken my final vows._  
  
 _Mages are remarkably uninhibited._  
  
 _I find myself lying awake at night, staring up at my ceiling, imagining you, wet and wanton, spread open beneath some man I shall never know, never see._  
  
 _I hope he makes you come more than once, that your back arches and your fingers clench around him, even as you muffle your cries against a blanket or an arm or into his mouth._  
  
 _By then I'm always hard, of course, I take myself in hand and imagine your hands, your mouth, your body...  I wonder if you still think of me when other men fuck you, when you touch yourself..._  
  
Maker, this is not helping.  
  
 _I miss you Bethany.  Distance seems incapable of quenching my need for you.  Not sure why I thought it might, when vows and walls never did before._  
  
 _I still think of you._  
  
 _It's especially strange, some days, now that I have been properly introduced to your Anders and your Fenris, rather than the occasional glimpse from a distance, names in your confessions.  I find I think differently of them now than I did when I listened to you speak._  
  
 _I was all set to sympathize with Anders, a Healer, in love with a woman he could not have, lost and alone and in hiding, those who should have been his friends all left behind.  I thought it sounded eerily familiar, at times._  
  
 _It's not as if I can hold being an apostate against him, considering my feelings for you.  Even I am aware of the hypocrisy that would require.  And yet, five moments in his company and I rather want to hit him with a brick just to shut him up.  I seem to be unable to hold onto ideals of compassion and charity in the face of such unrelenting, unforgiving, determination._  
  
 _I do not think he cares that most Templars and Priests are people too._  
  
 _Sometimes I'm not sure he thinks elves are people either, considering how very much he despises Merrill and Fenris, how quickly he dismisses all warnings about the lives the Tevinter Magisters lead, the treatment of their slaves._  
  
 _Or maybe I just feel that way because I find myself enjoying Fenris' company more than I expected.  A little brusque, and certainly with a temper, but not without cause.  He listens better than many a Priest I've met, and sees things I miss._  
  
 _And then seems surprised that I am impressed by his skills._  
  
 _I'm a little surprised as well, it's true. I was sure I'd hate him.  I quite_ wanted _ _to despise him, but he is much too strong a soul to allow that._ Apparently I'm a very poor judge of character based on second-hand stories, but that is always the danger of a confessional, isn't it?  It is not a place for truth, always, but rather one for emotion and prayer and release._

_I think I was just jealous.  I still am, a little.  I think he misses you.  And not just the sex.  You're a difficult woman to leave behind._   
  
_Besides, if I were to hold the things I'd heard in Confession against people, I'd have trouble meeting with half of Kirkwall.  It is mostly easy to set aside, ten years practice after all, but sometimes I wonder if Fenris would forgive me, if he ever was to learn I know some of his secrets._   
  
_Anders already hates me, I doubt it would make much difference on his front._   
  
_Ah, but those are worries for the future.  I find it's hard to think in terms of weeks or moons, now, rather than just making it through each day._   
  
_Though I'll admit I can picture my life, twenty years as the Grand Cleric's pet noble archer, violence and piety fighting uneasily in my heart, trailing along behind your sister if she asks, (I find I need the coin, nowadays, and I mostly enjoy her company and her adventures, and sometimes we even do some good), and aIways I dream of you as I fuck my palm alone in my bedchamber._   
  
_The thought should horrify, I suppose, but it's still better than either of the lives I used to live.  At least I shall be honest with myself, honest about my indecision, honest that I am lost between lives, between options, between duties and desires._   
  
_Lost without you._


	12. Chapter 12

_I've never kept a journal before, Sebastian.  Not sure why I finally am now, pretending I am writing to you when really I am only indulging myself._  
  
 _I am indulged a lot, here.  Mother's name and Luise's money combined to make me infamous.  I get a room to myself, despite being the youngest harrowed mage in the Gallows.  Mother and Luise are allowed to visit.  Rarely, of course, but it's still better than anyone else gets._  
  
 _They hate me for that._  
  
 _I let them hate me.  I let the anger simmer until someone lashes out, and then I submit, so sweetly, and they take, they take everything I let them take, and I shudder beneath an angry mouth, around a hard cock, riding someone else's fingers rather than my own._  
  
 _A lifetime spent hiding anger and bitterness, spent finding what pleasures I could from those who did not wish to give them?  Perfect training for a Circle as miserable as this one.  They have no pride, no freedom, so they distract themselves with lust._  
  
 _It is disturbingly familiar, to be honest._  
  
 _I am locked up behind dark walls, everything has changed... and nothing._  
  
 _I want more than this._  
  
 _I want to be more than this, but I don't have the first clue how._  
  
 _I wish I could ask you._  
  
 _I had hoped, for awhile, that you would find a way inside to see me, a Chantry brother, serving at the Gallows?  It seemed so possible._  
  
 _But then Luise told me that she knew you.  That she fought with you, the_ former _Brother.  Who wished to pass along his greetings to a girl he used to know._

_I must admit, my first thought was the image of you, and Anders, and Fenris, all following behind my sister.  Are you friends now? Or rivals? Do they know that there is more to you than just a former Brother who asked my sister for help and then never left?  Do they know you knew me?  It's not as if they'd tell you themselves, of Hawke's little sister and what they used to do to her._

_All of you hiding the truth of your relationships with me.  It almost made me laugh, and then cry, that I'll never see it for myself._  
  
 _Did you finally leave your robes behind because of your family?_  
  
 _Or dare I hope that it was because of me?_  
  
 _I find that thought a comfort, even if it now keeps us apart._  
  
 _Again._  
  
 _We're always too late.  The wrong question, the wrong time, the wrong people, the wrong place.  It's enough to make me think the Templars are right, and the Maker does despise me for the sin of being born with magic._  
  
 _But you are one of the most devout men I have ever known, and you do not despise me._  
  
 _I like your Andraste better than the one I see here, the terrible warrior who condemns her enemies.  Your Andraste was the one who sang the Maker's heart awake again.  Your Andraste comforts me here, when their Andraste becomes too much to bear._  
  
 _It would be such a relief to hear you sing of Her again._  
  
 _I do not know how long I can do this, Sebastian.  How long I can still be myself.  How long I can remember the person you said you loved._  
  
 _Do you still love me?  I'm afraid I shall always love you.  It hurts, in here, to think that.  But it hurts more to imagine that love fading away._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part four: all that remains**

Bethany wiggled her toes, feeling the rough fabric of the chair rubbing against bare skin.  She peered sideways past her book, making sure she could see her shoes where she'd kicked them off, still next to the chair, not quite in the pathway between the library's shelves.  
  
No classes today, no lectures.  She might manage an entire afternoon alone, just herself and the latest novel someone had managed to get delivered to the library amidst all the more academic tomes.  There was quite the nice collection of them, actually, hidden in one small bookcase under a window, adventures and mysteries and romance and a few that would have made the virgin she used to pretend to be blush bright red and stammer.  
  
She didn't pretend such things, anymore.  Too many people here had seen her on her knees, a cock down her throat or shoved up between her legs.    
  
She had been a little surprised, during the past three years, to discover she missed the game, after years of chafing under the strictures of her own practiced deceptions.    
  
 _At least my secret's safe behind these walls.  Mother and Luise need never know._  
  
Bethany managed not to frown at the distinctive tread of Templar boots approaching.  She'd been hoping to read for awhile without the itchy sensation between her shoulder blades of someone watching her turn the pages, and here she'd wasted her brief moment of solitude dithering about her family and her past.  
  
Only it wasn't just any templar.  
  
"Knight-Captain?"  Cullen didn't generally serve library guard duty.  Library guard duty was for the newest recruits, as everyone behaved in the library, rather than risk being restricted from the one room with wide glass windows and open shutters and sunlight and air and no one listening too closely to one's conversations.  
  
Plus the ever popular dirty books, of course.  
  
"Serah Hawke."  He usually called her Bethany.  It had taken almost a year, but he hadn't slipped back into formality in months ... only now he looked more constipated than usual, serious and tense, a shadow in his eyes she didn't recognize.  "You have a ... visitor.  If you would come with me?"  
  
For some reason she could feel a tightness in her chest at that.   _Something is so very wrong._  Her voice seemed caught somewhere beneath her heart, so she just nodded, dropping her book in her chair and picking up her shoes.  
  
He walked her towards his office, not the small meeting room that she usually met her mother in, and then waved her in and shut the door, staying outside in the hallway.  
  
Leaving her alone with ...  
  
"Sebastian?"  Her voice broke at the end of his name, and she was almost scared as she saw him turn around to face her, the motion slow and stiff.  He was dressed in leather and scales, creased with lines where plate would be strapped over it, slight shadows that would be hard to see in the dark grey if you weren't looking very closely.  
  
She had always looked closely at Sebastian however; a skill she apparently still had, even as out of practice as she was.  She considered briefly the likelihood she'd fallen asleep, that this was just a dream, like so many she'd had her first few months here, though they'd mostly faded over the years.  
  
 _Almost three years since I've seen him._    
  
She blinked.  Still here.  It was hard to breathe, hard to believe, hard to understand.  She focused instead on the multiple parallel lines along his left arm.  His right arm was almost free of the marks, and she recalled him mentioning archery, back when they had innocent conversations before everything went wrong.  
  
It seemed safer to look at the line of his shoulders and arms than to think about how or why, to admit that this was much too vivid to be a dream.  She could not seem to make sense of anything, and so it felt most important to figure out the differences caused by holding and pulling a bow, over and over again, the imbalance of a body half built for strength and half for patience.  
  
She didn't want to see his face, still so beautiful, there was something dark and broken behind his eyes, something that reminded her too clearly of the night he'd come to her after his family died.  
  
 _Not just died.  Was killed._  
  
"Bethany."  
  
"No."  She shook her head.  She didn't want to know why he was here, didn't want to know what could've happened that was serious enough Cullen would've let him in, would've left them alone, would've given her privacy in the only place in the Gallows where he could be completely sure he had control.   _Please, whatever, whoever it is, no ..._  
  
But she let him take her hand, let him pull her towards the two chairs Cullen kept pushed against the wall on the rare occasion he had visitors, even managed to keep her breathing steady as they sat, side by side, his knee just brushing the side of her leg.  
  
Her fingers clenched around his hand as he met her eyes.  Now that they were so close she could see the stains in his leather, _not his blood, he doesn't move like he's injured_ , the smudge of soot by his ear that he'd missed when he'd washed his face, the lingering scent of smoke and rot and filth that even now she still recognized as Darktown.  
  
"I'm sorry."  This time his voice broke, and she could see the shine in his eyes, tears he wasn't quite allowing to spill past his lashes.  
  
 _Who._  She couldn't talk, mouthed the word as her fingers tightened again, so hard she could almost feel the bones shift in his hand.   _Not Luise, not again, I couldn't stand it, not after Carver, please ..._  
  
"Your mother."  
  
 _No._  
  
She felt her body still, stiff and frozen, _no, impossible, she's safe, the Estate, she told me about the Estate, she just got new drapes for her room ..._  
  
"Leandra died, earlier this evening," his voice was rough, soft, but firm, relentless, his fingers shifting just enough to ease her grip, to stroke her hands, his eyes still staring at her as she shook her head.  "Your sister is still in shock, and I did not want you to find out from your Uncle, tomorrow, when he asks for an audience."  
  
At that she shuddered, cold down her spine, the thought of Gamlen here, hate and love and regret and anger and sorrow and shame and the shift of his eyes and the way his palms were always clammy, the twist of his mouth bitter even when he tried to smile.  
  
She had always recognized the frustrated anger in her Uncle, almost a kindred spirit, for all she hid her own better than he ever did.  
  
"What?"  She took a breath, closed her eyes, let it out, long and slow, tried to ignore the shiver low in her stomach.  "How?"  
  
"That can wait, Be -"  
  
"How. Did. My. Mother. Die."  She opened her eyes and stared at him, held herself still except for the lift of her chin to aim her glare, the flare of her nostrils as she breathed.  
  
She felt him shudder that time, his eyes closing and his head bowing as his breath fled his body, hard and hot, and she was afraid for a moment he wouldn't answer, that she'd have to hit him, hex him, fight him for the truth.  
  
"Do you remember Ninette de Carrac?"  
  
Bloody bones.  
  
"No."   _No, not that, not him, not mother, no, no, no._  She could feel her chest rising, her breath too fast, too shallow, the office dim and murky and everything hurt.  "No."  
  
"He's dead."  Sebastian's voice was firm again, he leaned forward until all she could see was his face, his eyes fixed on hers until she managed to gasp a decent breath of air, until she looked back at him and could hear again, could almost think.  "Your sister stopped him.  We killed him.  But we were too late to save your mother."  
  
"He's dead?"  
  
His hands were holding her, holding her there, grounding her, warm and solid around fingers gone limp and cold.  "Yes."  
  
That was good, that he was dead, that Sebastian was here.  
   
"He killed my mother?"  She felt her voice rise, light and broken and uncertain.  
  
"Yes."  
  
 _My mother's dead._  
  
She was shaking her head again, her whole body shaking, her hands clinging to his arms, his shoulders, _no, no, not mother, not my mother_ , and he was whispering something, kind and soothing and she couldn't make out the words, but she needed that voice, softer than her heart and more even than her breath; she held onto that voice to keep her sane, keep her safe, even as her head fell against his shoulder and she started to cry.


	14. Chapter 14

He wanted alcohol.  Craved hard whisky and a cut-throat card-game and a mindless brawl or two in a way he hadn't in well over a decade.  
  
He'd made her cry.  
  
 _Again._  
  
And for all that this time wasn't his fault, _unless it was, if only we'd been a little faster, could we have saved her?_  
  
He shook his head, trying to ignore the whisper of his less pleasant thoughts as he slowly made his way back to the Chantry.  Maker's Breath, he was tired.  Muscles he usually didn't have to think about were sore and weak, each step an exercise in concentration to remember how to place his feet.  
  
If there were any gangs left in Hightown he'd be easy prey tonight.  
  
There was an echo to that thought, a reminder of a similar walk through Kirkwall three years ago, in that he wasn't completely sure he'd mind if they found him.  Wasn't sure he didn't deserve it.  He wanted, just once in his life, to bring joy to someone he loved, rather than sorrow.  
  
Didn't seem likely to happen.  
  
Leandra had been a lovely woman.  
  
And despite the horror of it all, the grief, the anger, the guilt, the way he'd felt it like claws in his chest each time Bethany's breath caught in a sob, beneath it all he knew he was jealous.  
  
Jealous of their tears.  
  
He'd never quite managed honest tears for his mother.  Not that she'd have wanted him to cry.  He wasn't sure she'd have cried for him, had circumstances been reversed.  
  
They'd lost potential more than reality, when she'd been murdered.  
  
She'd have despised who he'd become in the years since then.  Not quite a noble, not quite a Brother, following along after a jump-start-Fereldan-refugee, pining after a _mage_ of all things.  
  
 _"Can't even just keep an elf hidden away on an estate somewhere to soothe your lusts in private like a proper man of rank."_  
  
It was odd, how clearly he could hear the sniff at the end of the sentence, picture her eyes clear and cool as she watched him, waiting for him to do something right, just once, without needing someone else to lead the way.    
  
Expecting him to do something wrong, instead.  
  
Beautiful but distant, Princess Vael, Pratima Abasol, a jewel from Antiva gracing the Starkhaven Court.  
  
Leandra, though, had been a lovely mother, strong and warm and smiling.  
  
Bethany had her eyes.  
  
It was the thought of those eyes that had driven him out of the Estate and down to the Gallows rather than up to the Chantry.  Those eyes always looked for the truth of the world around them, even as they tried to hide it from everyone else.  Those eyes deserved to know what happened without being burdened by Hawke's guilt or Gamlen's bitter rage.  
  
Not that he was not equally burdened, regret and sorrow and the memories of his own family's deaths, but he'd needed to know she was alright.  
  
He'd so very desperately wanted to see her again, to see her whole and strong and alive to help soothe the memory of Leandra's eyes dying.  Even Bethany's tears were better than the thought of Bethany's eyes gone cold and empty.  
  
His uneven pace stuttered to a halt, one hand braced against the wall, the other lifted to his face, as if he could block his thoughts with his fingers, prevent himself from imagining her face in that abattoir, her neck marked by thick black stitches as she was held together by the will of a madman.  
  
He huffed out a breath as he started moving again, an edge of disgust bitter in his throat.  She'd lost her mother in the most horrible of ways, and here he was, more concerned with his own grief, his own guilt, his own regret, rather than hers.  
  
Perhaps because it was easier to bear that familiar weight upon his shoulders than the thought of her, alone and sorrowful, as memories of her mother preyed on her in the coming weeks.  
  
He stole a bottle of wine from the Chantry kitchen before making his way to his room in the guest quarters, once he made it all the way back.  He drank it dry before he managed to numb his thoughts enough to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part five: demands of the qun**

They were all dead. None of them had been trained properly for this sort of thing, powerful but ignorant regarding a real battle, no clue when to duck, when to move, when to stand their ground. Bethany felt like she'd failed them, somehow. Her experience, her spells, should have been enough to succeed, to save them. Someone. Somehow. Even if just one.  
  
The First Enchanter stepped to her side, offering her his hand, and as she glanced up at him she saw the same thought in his eyes, only even stronger, darker. They'd literally been his responsibility, his choice for those most likely to survive, and he'd been unable to protect them.  
  
Before she could think of something to say, some platitude, some smile, _we did our best, we stopped the ones who killed them, we're still here to fight,_ he stepped aside, and she was suddenly wrapped in familiar arms, strong and tight, the metal of her sister's breastplate digging into her chest.  
  
"Thank the Maker, Bethany, I thought," Luise swallowed, the sound audible against Bethany's ear, and then she stepped back, one hard breath and she had herself completely under control again.  
  
 _We all have our masks, don't we?_ It was, perhaps, the first time Bethany let herself wonder what sort of secrets Luise guarded so closely behind the same dark eyes they'd both inherited from their mother. _Perhaps I'm not the only one ..._  
  
But it was too late for that, three years at least, both of them living their separate lives.  
  
She glanced back around the court, surprised not to see Isabela at her sister's back, trying not to be disappointed not to see Sebastian either. Varric, and Fenris, offering a smile and a nod, as close to a proper greeting as could be managed in public.  
  
Especially with the Knight-Commander on their heels.  
  
Bethany had to admit, it was strangely satisfying watching her sister yell at the both of them, sheer force of will and anger, pushing well past the point any sane person would've backed down.  
  
Hawkes never were known for taking the easy route.  
  
Of course, fighting the sodding Arishok because Luise wasn't bloody well going to let anyone else have-at Isabela for coming back was a bit much, even for her. Fenris let Bethany hold his hand while they watched, fingers clenching tight enough she could feel the hum of the lyrium in his scars against her skin.  
  
She may have cheated, just a little, a whisper of healing magic leaking along her thoughts toward her sister. She was pretty sure Fenris could tell, another quirk of the lyrium, but he didn't say anything, didn't shift his grip or glance her way, didn't seem to object.  
  
She'd missed him quite a lot, the brilliant stubborn ornery bastard.  
  
She felt it like an ache in her chest when he held the templars back, afterwards, just long enough she could shove every twist of every healing spell she'd ever learned, layer upon layer of mana, into her sister's body. She'd managed to grab Varric before the Knight-Commander began their recessional back to the Gallows, made him swear to keep Hawke as quiet as he could, to get Anders to the Estate as soon as possible.   
  
Luise couldn't risk showing an ounce of weakness while standing up to Meredith and the nobles here in the Keep, but Bethany's quick and dirty spells weren't going to fix anything, weren't enough to keep her on her feet for long.  
  
Anders, though. He was good. Brilliant. He'd save her.  
  
He had to.  
  


* * *

  
  
He'd missed her. Missed a chance to see, to talk, maybe even touch. Sebastian was painfully jealous of Fenris, of the bruised edge to the white scars on the back of his hand from Bethany's grip.  
  
From Bethany's magic.  
  
Missed a chance to be there for her, as she watched her sister fight. Not that he hadn't been busy, helping Aveline and the Guard keep order, _managing to work with Merrill and Anders, the situation too serious for squabbling,_ getting people off the streets, away from the qunari, away from the Keep. But he'd been busy in the wrong place, at the wrong time, yet again, and it hurt.  
  
And he hated himself for being so selfish as to hurt about that, of all things.  
  
Nevermind Dumar, and the riots, and Hawke herself, sleeping as she healed, a mess of scars and stitches and bandages and Anders' magic holding her together; his throat was dry and his fingers tired from gripping the world around them too tightly, more because he missed Bethany than he gave a damn about Kirkwall.  
  
Not that he didn't care, not that he couldn't see the repercussions of it all, no Viscount, Hawke's singular appointment to Champion by the Knight-Commander herself, the disaster of it all as the Seneschal would have to try and get the nobles to help clean up without the strength of the Viscount's office behind him to lend weight to his words.  
  
Sebastian just cared about Bethany more.  
  
If his own position wasn't so precarious, he'd declare his support of the Seneschal just to help get people moving, but he was afraid his name would have the opposite of the desired effect. Hawke's might work, but she wasn't even up to sitting at the chair by her fire for her meals yet, so it would have to wait.  
  
He sighed softly, glancing at the fire, listening to Hawke's breathing in her bed, a little heavy and rough still, but steady. They took turns staying with her when Anders was away. They all knew how to change a bandage, apply a poultice, help her with broth and tea when she was awake enough to bother drinking.  
  
They all knew the route through the basements down to Darktown, if they needed Anders for more than that.  
  
When she'd finally woken up the first time, after two days sleeping in a magic induced coma, he'd attempted to go the Gallows to let Bethany know. They hadn't let him in, the Knight-Captain just giving the slightest of nods, promising to pass the news along to Serah Hawke, and gesturing him out the door again.  
  
So here he was, sitting in her sister's room, trying not to worry. About either of them. And failing miserably.  
  
He found himself singing a lot, to pass the time, to ease her rest. He wandered through every old nursery rhyme and tavern staple he could think of, careful not to resort to the Chant, for all that was usually what had been requested when he'd done vigil by sickbeds in his previous life.  
  
Hawke, however, was not particularly devout. And a little less than fond of Templars and Priests in general, considering what high regard she'd held her father in, how protective she was of her sister. The one and only time he'd sung the Chant for her was after her mother died. He doubted she'd appreciate the reminder if she woke up to hear it again.  
  
He wondered what music Bethany would prefer to hear, if they lived in a world where he could serenade her sleep.   
  
He wondered if she'd still even want him there to sing to her, if they lived in such a world. He'd hurt her so many times, even if he'd never meant to, never wanted to, and now, after so many years apart ...  
  
He couldn't find it in himself to want her to pine after him. He wished her to be as happy as she could, even in the Gallows. He wished he could see her again, just once. Even if it were to say good-bye. Though he'd infinitely prefer a chance to say hello. To look in her eyes and see that same dark longing he seemed unable to leave behind. To know she loved him still, despite it all. To be able to tell her the same.

_I told you once I would always love you, Bethany. I meant it then, and it's still true now. I wish it was enough. For either of us._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part six: mark of the assassin**

"You want me to what?"  Sebastian asked Hawke, almost as startled by her manner as her question, her feet shifting awkwardly and her hands fidgeting with her belt.  
  
"Well, I have the invitation, and I met this elf, and she's obviously up to something, and the only way to find out is to go, right?  And you're the only person I know who's any good with nobles and any use in a fight.  You've probably got an invitation too, right?"  
  
 _She just asked me something and said right twice in a row.  No orders.  No grins.  No scary sword hilt behind her head._  
  
"I'd be more than willing to assist you Hawke, you know that, but," he shrugged, feeling oddly out of his depth.  He never had gotten as good at reading Hawke as he had been at understanding Bethany, even if he'd now known her for over four times as long.   _And that's a distressing thought._  "What are you worried about?"  
  
"Nothing."  Her eyes shifted sideways, and it was her turn to shrug uneasily.  "Just thought ...  Nevermind, forget I asked."  
  
 _Ah._  Now he felt stupid.  He recognized that expression in her eyes, the one he'd seen all too often in the mirror when he let his mind wander to Bethany.  Hawke wanted Isabela to back her up.    
  
But no one had heard from Isabela in over a year.  Varric occasionally caught a rumor or two, and no one had quite given up hope that she'd return at some point, when the wind blew her back towards Kirkwall.  
  
But she hadn't yet.  
  
"I will not forget."  Hawke's fidgets stilled.  "And I'd be happy to help you keep an eye on your mysterious elf.  When do we leave?"  
  
When she smiled, her eyes looked just like her sister's, and it made his heart ache to return the gesture.  But it was better to see an echo of Bethany in her sister than never to see her at all.  
  


* * *

  
  
"You want me to what?"  Bethany asked the First-Enchanter, hope and surprise and confusion.  "Really?"  
  
He permitted himself the slightest of smiles, a hint of pride glinting in his eyes.  It wasn't often he managed to get an idea like this past the templars.  "It seems important to the Knight-Commander that we prove Kirkwall stable and secure, despite ... recent events."  
  
"Especially to greedy Orlesian nobles with summer homes near-by?"  
  
Orsino almost winked.  "Exactly.  And you are the Champion's sister, and of noble blood, and one presumes your mother actually taught you proper formal table manners?"  He raised one slim eyebrow until she nodded.    
  
"Serah Keran will accompany you.  Try and make sure he picks up the right fork?"  
  
 _What.  Keran?_  Bethany started to open her mouth, but realized complaining about the young recruit who had reason to be grateful to her family was probably not the smartest thing she'd ever done.  
  
 _And the list of not-smart things I've done is so very long.  Let me not add to it, for once._  
  
Orsino's lips twitched, his amusement mostly held in check.  "I trust you not to get into too much trouble, and it will help get him out from under the cloud of that blood mage incident if he does well on his own."  
  
 _And he'll know it was the First-Enchanter who gave him that chance, not the Knight-Commander.  Ah well, he's nice enough company, I can do my part for Circle politics._  "Of course, First-Enchanter.  When do we leave?"  
  


* * *

  
  
Sebastian had not thought he'd ever see Bethany Hawke again.  At the Duke's smirking introduction he was afraid he gave himself away, a lack of breath, a clench of fingers, the hunger in his eyes.  And yet, it seemed Hawke's own awkward greeting was of more interest to the Duke and his guests.  
  
Except perhaps to Bethany herself, dark eyes on his, her own hands tight, her shoulders still as if she found it as difficult to breathe as he did.  But before either of them could say a word, before he could do something incredibly stupid, like try to take her in his arms or press her against a handy tree and kiss her until neither of them wished to breathe again, Tallis said something unfortunate, and there was the heavy shift of templar plate beside them, and the moment was lost as they both bowed to necessity.  
  
And wyvern hunting, apparently.


	17. Chapter 17

Her sister and the thief wished to reconnoitre, which was difficult to do with a templar on their heels, so they wandered off on their own, leaving Sebastian with Bethany.  
  
And leaving them both with Serah Keran, of course, so she couldn't just search out a quiet corner and find out how much of Sebastian's skin she could touch before someone got offended. She suspected neither of them would care if the whole party turned out to watch, almost five years simmering regret not enough to dim either of their desires, judging by the stance of his hips and the heat in his eyes and the way she always knew precisely where he was.  
  
But a templar on duty was another story altogether, and unlikely to forgive their trespasses just so he could watch them. She knew templars who would, of course, but she had been saddled with an honest man. She'd been glad of that, before she left. _Silly me._ Keran seemed content to stand beside the tables laden with things the Duke seemed to think were food, however, so at least they could dance.  
  
Oh how they could dance.  
  
At first it was awful, neither speaking a word, the brush of fingers and the shift of weight and arms much too stiff as they held themselves apart.  
  
"How have you been, these past, I mean, are you?" Half polite attempt at conversation, half desperate longing thickening his accent, Sebastian's stuttered questions broke their impasse first, and she ached with uncertainty, how to speak of desire and regret and memories and the small stash of journals hidden beneath her bed, each addressed to him.  
  
"I am tired of templar cock." She stumbled at that, _of all the things to say, what is wrong with me,_ and was half convinced he would abandon her mid-step as she flushed and closed her eyes, but instead she heard an almost laugh, felt his arms ease, his body step just a breath closer, enough she could feel the warmth of him around her.  
  
"I wish quite fervently I could offer you some ... variety." His voice was warmer than her skin, a whisper and a promise and a caress all on its own, and she lifted her eyes to see his face, sad and smiling; he was still the most handsome man she'd ever known. "But unfortunately." His head tilted enough to aim a glance at Keran, still watching, his expression stiff and bored and uncomfortable, surrounded by orlesian nobles and orlesian food and orlesian manners.  
  
"Quite unfortunate," she agreed softly, trying to ignore the ache in her heart and the heat between her legs and the way his eyes flickered down to her neck when she swallowed. "But even though we cannot," _do all the things we've never done ..._  
  
She swallowed again, could feel his gaze against her skin, the gentle touch of his hand in hers, the heat of his palm against her hip. She could imagine so clearly how his hands would feel anywhere else, everywhere else, through fabric and against skin. She wanted to stroke the back of his neck, run her fingers up into his hair, press herself against his chest. Instead she just shook her head, another blink when he spun her around as the music shifted.  
  
"It is good to see you again," he finished for her, when the words got caught in her throat.  
  
"Yes," she sighed, leaning just a little closer. "Yes it is."  
  
Something eased down her spine, across her shoulders, and she smiled, and started to talk. She told him of Cullen, and Keran, and poor fragile Alain, and he told her all the things Luise never did, about how Luise herself was doing, and how much she refused to admit she missed Isabela, and how carefully Varric and Aveline took care of her, so that she would not fuss and complain at their attentions.  
  
She told him of her journals. He laughed and admitted to a box or so of letters of his own. She told him of her studies, and how, despite the walls and the eyes and the quiet, there was some pleasure to be found in having a proper library and the freedom to read and discuss a part of herself she'd always had to hide.  
  
He mentioned that Fenris was learning how to read, and seemed quite likely to make more use of the Amell library than Hawke herself did. He was also making a dent in the wine cellar, but that was less of a surprise, and Hawke helped with that quite a bit.  
  
Bethany laughed, though it was a little strange to picture them as friends, Sebastian and Fenris bent over a book at a desk she'd never seen, in the house that bore her mother's name.  
  
He'd given her mother's name to the Sisters, to include in their memorial Chants, and had bought a cutting of Andraste's Grace to plant beside the Amell mausoleum, shortly after one more urn of ashes had been added. It had trouble growing in Kirkwall's damp sea air, but while it had not bloomed yet, neither had it died, and he still held out hope for its ability to thrive in adverse conditions. "Much like her daughters do, after all."  
  
She blinked, heat and ache in her eyes now, an urge to cry she could not admit, and somehow they were tucked up against a wall, behind a tree, temporarily out of sight, his hand against her cheek and his forehead resting on hers and perhaps she sobbed, just a little, at the feel of his breath and the strength of his shoulder beneath her hand as her fingers curled along the silk of his shirt, because how was it possible to love this man she'd barely seen in years, she'd barely known before, and yet, and yet, she did, she always had, and it hurt and it never got better and it never eased _and it isn't fair_.  
  
"I'm sorry," his voice was as broken as her breath, she knew he felt the same, which was both a comfort and a misery, better and worse, all at once, and she was going to scream at any moment, swear at the Maker and His Bride loudly enough to scare the wyverns on the hills.   
  
"Bethany," he whispered this time, breath against her cheek, dark and warm and smooth, and she lifted her chin, just enough, their noses bumped and he tilted his head and his lips touched hers.  
  
She sighed, almost a whimper, and she wasn't sure if her heart stopped completely or just skipped a beat or three at the feel of him, the line of his body pressed against hers, his lips soft and firm, his hair between her fingers as her hands slid up his neck and held his head.  
  
He didn't smell like incense anymore, leather and metal and pine from the mountains almost covering the warmth of his skin instead.  
  
He groaned into her mouth as her fingers tightened, his weight pushing her back against the wall, and she could feel the heat of him, scalding, from her mouth all the way to her toes, _Maker, yes, thank you_ , and she clung to him, for just an instant, let herself pretend, imagine that it could last forever.  
  
Of course it couldn't, though he tucked his head beside hers for another few breaths even after their lips had parted, their arms still wrapped around each other. But then they heard polite applause, the muted claps of gloved hands as the music ended, and she pushed him back, just enough she could take a full breath and smooth her dress and hair and tuck her feelings back down far enough behind her eyes no one besides Sebastian would be able to recognize them.  
  
She watched the slow blink as his face settled into a calm mask as he did the same, and then he offered her his arm, and they walked back out where Keran could see them, slow and stately enough that he might not even think to ask what they had been doing.  
  
They were both quite good at playing the innocent, after all.


	18. Chapter 18

"You want Hawke to what?"  Sebastian turned and coughed into his hand, trying not to snicker.  Tallis had somehow failed to endear herself to her target, but the mental image of Hawke attempting to sweet talk someone ...  
  
Bethany wasn't doing much better, biting at her bottom lip and ducking her head to hide the light dancing in her eyes.  Maker, he wanted to bite that lip, then suck the sting away until she moaned.  "You might have better luck with that if the Duke had a daughter, I suppose?"  
  
"Even then, she tends to just charge forward."  Sebastian caught Bethany's eye and they shared a grin.  "Most orlesians don't find that very impressive."  
  
"I'm very impressive."  Hawke crossed her arms in front of her chest.  "Champion, remember?"  
  
"You can't just bash Lord Cyril in the back of the head, sister."  
  
"She wouldn't really ..."  Tallis' eyes widened as Hawke shrugged and Bethany and Sebastian finally gave up and started laughing.  
  
"Really, Tallis, you're the thief, can't you just?"  Hawke wiggled her fingers.  
  
"I couldn't get close enough."  Tallis frowned.  "Maybe he just doesn't like elves? Or women?"  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Sebastian.  "Fine, Messere Prince.  You've got both of those covered.  If you're so smart, you get the key for us."  
  
"If you worry about what the mark likes more than what you want, it's no wonder he slipped through your fingers."  Sebastian shook his head.  
  
Hawke snorted.  "Sometimes I forget you're a nobleman and a politician and you used to be a selfish tit.  And then you say things like that."  
  
"I must admit, I am glad to no longer be considered a selfish tit.  Thank you, Hawke."  
  
"You're welcome, Sebastian."  
  
Bethany giggled, and he had to close his eyes to be sure Hawke didn't see ... what, he wasn't sure, precisely, beyond the shifting of his heart slipping out of his control, as it kept doing, over and over, at the sound of Bethany's voice or the sight of her in sunlight.  Sunshine, indeed.    
  
 _Hawke would probably bash me in the back of the head, if she knew._  
  
Hawke was nothing if not overprotective, and terrifyingly straight-forward about it.  Straight enough she never could recognize the twists in another woman's soul, so unable to understand her sister, even as she loved her.  
  
"Shall we, then?"  He opened her eyes to see Bethany offering him her arm, their shared secrets hiding behind the shadow of her smile.    
  
"We?"  Hawke raised her eyebrows, even as Sebastian took Bethany's arm in his and started to turn away from the party.  
  
"Of course," Bethany aimed her smile back over her shoulder at her sister, bright and pert, "in case it is women the lordling likes, just not elvish ones.  Even Sebastian's not quite that pretty."  
  
"Distract Serah Templar for us, will you?" Sebastian felt his lips twitch as he was forced to speak over Hawke's wordless growl, displeased with the thought of Bethany-calling-him-pretty, though it paled in comparison to Bethany-as-bait.  "We'll be back as soon as we can."  
  
He'd intended simply to apologize for the manners of Hawke's guest, to offer a drink and pick his pocket, but Lord Cyril apparently had other ideas, eyes hot along Bethany's curves, head tilted at Sebastian's greeting.  Being a bored noble it was probably just interest in the tale of conquest, in getting so very close to the Champion, in touching someone none of his peers had tasted, or would be likely to have the chance to pursue, but Bethany's eyes were dark as she looked back at Sebastian, and he recognized the heat of this, their one opportunity, _how close can we get, how long will we have,_ and he blinked his assent, and she locked the door.  
  
"I feel I must express my regret," Sebastian began, careful to walk slowly, steps sure, to almost touch as he passed behind Lord Cyril, but not quite yet.  "At the behavior of our companion."  
  
Bethany sat down as he spoke, head down and hands clasped in her lap, demure and quiet and yet Cyril was staring at her breasts, and Sebastian was having trouble breathing after watching the shift of her hips, and he had no idea how she did that, but he remembered it, the way she would settle so slowly into her pew or the confessional bench and all he could ever think about was sex.  
  
It still worked.  
   
"To think a man of your, refined tastes, could be tempted by the awkward flirtations of someone so very far beneath his station."  He let his voice drop, _Maker I am out of practice_ , but he could feel the potential of Bethany, fire in his blood, and he was determined to make this perfect.  
  
For her.  
  
"When anyone with any sense knows that true pleasure is not just a question of flesh, but _power_."  As he whispered the final word against the lordling's ear, Sebastian stepped closer to his back, and closer yet again, until Cyril edged forward to stand only a short distance in front of Bethany.  "Have you ever been with a mage, milord?"  
  
At Cyril's audible swallow and head-shake no, Bethany slid forward, landing surprisingly gracefully on her knees, her face perilously close to the young man's groin.    
  
"They submit so very sweetly to man's authority, so well trained in their Circles.  Would you like her to submit to you?"  
  
"Oh yes," Cyril whispered, his accent thick, his hand reaching out as if to touch her hair.  
  
Sebastian clicked his tongue and caught the other man's wrist in a tight grip an instant before he could make contact.  "There is one stipulation to my offer, before we begin."  
  
Cyril stilled, back tense against Sebastian's chest, a shiver of his contempt almost tangible in the air, _this could turn badly so very quickly_.  "As she is mine, milord," _too close to the truth, that one word, mine and mine, my heart beats just for her_ , "if you wish her to submit to you, than you must submit to me."  
  
He could see Bethany shiver at that, the slightest shift of shoulders and hands, but more importantly for their immediate success, Cyril relaxed, the weight of his body now snug against the length of Sebastian's chest and leg.  
  
"You intrigue me, messere," Cyril whispered as Sebastian loosened his grip.  "I would be delighted."  
  
"So shall we all, I hope."  Sebastian breathed that answer across Cyril's skin, but it was all for Bethany.    
  
Bethany, who tilted her head into Cyril's touch, a soft hum just barely audible as it escaped her throat.  Bethany, whose nimble fingers were already tugging at the ties around Cyril's waist, whose eyes were half closed in anticipation, a hint of darkness all that was visible as she looked up at them through her lashes.  
  
She gave one last tug, and licked her lips, and Cyril sighed and Sebastian held in a shudder as Cyril's trousers slid down his thighs.  She rubbed her cheek against his visibly hardening cock, before dipping her head between his thighs.  Sebastian couldn't quite tell what she was doing, beyond the flex of cheeks and chin, but Cyril's head fell back against Sebastian's shoulder with a groan, his hips shifting as he widened his stance to give her access.  
  
Sebastian followed the shift of weight, his hands pulling against Cyril's hips until they were pressed together tightly, his gaze looking down Cyril's shoulder and chest to watch the shift of Bethany's head, the way the strands of her hair caught and slid against Cyril's fingers.  
  
It ought to bother him, he supposed, to see the woman he loved with her head between another man's thighs, and yet.  It never had.  Her stories, her experiences, were a part of her and how she became the woman he so adored in the first place.  Not that he didn't quite desperately want to touch her himself, rather than watching the petty lordling enjoy himself.  He rolled his hips, antagonizing more than relieving the ache between his legs as he rubbed his cock along the cleft of Cyril's arse, startling another groan out of the man's throat.  
  
The flicker of Bethany's lids at the sound was so quick Sebastian almost missed it, but he didn't, not quite, the flash of dark eyes aimed past Cyril right at him, the memory of her confessions a whisper through his thoughts, _I make them fuck me, Sebastian, and I pretend they're you._  
  
He didn't want either of them to have to pretend anymore.  
  
Just a little bit more.  
  
That thought was more than he could stand, tired of waiting, tired of wanting, and he shifted his stance as Cyril shuddered, as Bethany wrapped her lips around his cock, and he wrapped an arm around Cyril's throat.  
  
Cyril choked a smothered sigh and leaned into Sebastian's arm, obviously experienced with the way pressure and pleasure and darkness could build, could ache, the enjoyment of the pain of withdrawal, the way the whole world narrowed to gilt-edged sensation.  
  
It didn't take long, after that, Sebastian's hips pushing Cyril's cock into Bethany's mouth, Cyril's hands wrapped around Sebastian's arm, his entire body submitting to the two people around him.  As Cyril's body grew tense, his breath heavy when Sebastian released his grip to allow a gasp, the shift of his muscles erratic, almost there, Sebastian moved his arm, just enough, blocking blood instead of breath.  
  
Cyril's fingers clenched as Bethany swallowed, tension easing out of muscles, just a little ... and then he dropped completely into Sebastian's arms, hot and heavy as he succumbed to the sleeper hold.  
  
It took only another moment to lower him gently to the floor, for Sebastian to slide the key they needed out of Cyril's belt-pouch and into his own.  He lifted his head, one quick glance towards the door, _still locked, how long until someone comes searching_ , but he didn't care, because all he could bear to see was Bethany.  Her lips were swollen, just slighted parted, skin flushed and the lift of her breasts visible as she breathed.  
  
"This isn't how..." his voice trailed off, ragged and rough, _not how I wanted this, I wanted time, time to touch, time to savor, time to find a bed_ , but Maker he couldn't remember how to speak, how to think, how to do anything but want her.  
  
"Please," she mouthed, leaning forward, just a breath, and he held up a hand, palm flat.  He saw the flare of pain in her eyes, but that wasn't it, there was something they had to do, before he felt her skin; he'd never remember afterwards.    
  
His hand dropped to his belt, but no, formal attire, no armor, no kit, _no sleeping draught_ , "can you make sure he doesn't wake up?"  
  
Her nostrils flared, and she nodded.  
  
He'd never actually seen her use her magic before, seen the way her muscles stilled, her eyes gone distant, the hint of a shine around her fingers right before glowing lines appeared on the ground beneath Lord Cyril.  
  
 _Maker, she is breathtaking._  
  
He had to shift sideways to avoid getting caught in the glyph himself, an awkward scramble across the floor that made her laugh.  It was a shaky breathless sound, very different from her earlier giggle, and it made his cock throb and his heart thud and he wanted to take her right then, to shove her skirts aside and bite her neck, but it was reckless to mark her, and stupid to interrupt her before she was done.  
  
The light around her fingers faded, a slow sigh eased her back, and then she tilted her head to look at him directly.  
  
He wasn't sure which of them moved first, a slam of bodies and the catch of teeth before they managed a proper kiss, lips and tongue, he could feel the thrum of her body as she moaned, he was begging with each breath, _finally, yes, more, Bethany._  She was so hot against him, heavy in his arms, and the gasp in her voice when he pulled on her hair and kissed her neck made him shudder.  
  
Her fingers were digging into his shoulders and down his back, and then they were tugging on his belt as his hands slid up her skirt, smooth hose and warm skin and the break in her voice as he tugged her smalls out of the way and he had to kiss her again to muffle himself as her hands freed his cock and he wanted to yell, wanted to cry, but instead he pushed her to the floor, a tangle of legs and clothes as he settled above her.  He shifted his hips and thrust, hard and fast and deep and rough, and it was her turn to yell into his mouth, her back arching as her breasts pushed up against his chest, her hair catching in the rug beneath them as her body went impossibly taut, fingers digging into the floor as she came, shattered and aching, and he couldn't stop the roll of his hips as he followed, the spill of heat and relief and pleasure as he felt her around him, tight and tighter and impossible and perfect.  
  
He found her hands, fingers wrapped together, could feel the beat of her heart beneath him, solid and heavy and loud, almost as loud as his own, the ragged edge of her breathing as he rubbed his nose along her neck, her jaw, her cheek.  
  
He shuddered again, one last aftershock, his body softening, her breathing easing as she turned her head towards him, lips soft against his cheek, his ear, his hair.  He didn't ever want to move again, unless it was to undress her properly, find every inch of skin, taste and touch for hours.  
  
Which of course wasn't remotely an option.  
  
He felt Bethany sigh beneath him, her breath soft against his neck before she shifted her hips, and he groaned as his cock slipped out of her.  
  
"Sebastian," she whispered, sweet and sorrowful, her hands reaching up to hold his face, palms warm against his cheeks, and he kissed her again, soft and slow this time, a shared sigh of breath between them.  "I wish," her voice broke and he kissed her cheek that time, eyes closed to hold his own wishes inside until he could master his voice.  
  
"So do I."  
  
They took as much time as they dared cleaning up, the straightening of each other's clothes and the smoothing of Bethany's hair, waiting until their breathing eased and flushed skin faded.    
  
 _And now back to the real world, of soothing lordlings and helping Hawke and hopefully not getting into too much trouble with her thief._  
  
 _I'd much rather stay here._


	19. Chapter 19

Luise didn't show up for dinner. Or after dinner for drinks  
  
The party was still going strong, drinks and dancing and games and gossip, but eventually it would start to break up, guests returning to rooms or inns or starting their own journeys home under the stars.  
  
Keran seemed to know things were about to go horribly, horribly wrong; Bethany could see the crease above his eyebrows deepening as each mark passed by unusually peaceably.  
  
She'd gotten another dance in with Sebastian. That had been nice. But time was running out.  
  
"We have to rescue my sister," Bethany muttered to Sebastian over her glass of wine. "Any ideas for dealing with my chaperone?"  
  
"The last chaperone I had to deal with was successfully distracted with liquor and flowers and someone else's card game. I doubt that will work on a respectable Templar."  
  
She snorted softly in appreciation, but it didn't actually solve their problem. She couldn't just leave for their inn and sneak back out without Keran, it was too unlikely they'd be able to get back on the grounds.  
  
"I'm not stupid, Serah Bethany." She jumped at Keran's soft voice right behind her. "Even I know the Champion's probably in trouble. And I owe her one or two. Try to make it back to the rooms before dawn, so we can all pretend nothing happened?"  
  
"Are you sure?" She wanted to hug him, but that might attract the wrong sort of attention. Mages weren't usually that happy with their Templars. At least not in public. Or while they were still wearing armour.  
  
"I'm quite sure I won't get relieved of my probationary status if the Champion causes a diplomatic incident at a party I'm at, yes, even if we weren't remotely involved."  
  
Sebastian snorted softly. "Hawke's good at all sorts of incidents. We'll see what we can do, Serah Keran."  
  
Keran nodded, just a little, and turned and walked away. Without even much clanking. _He's getting good with that armour._ The thought made her vaguely sad, so she pushed it away, and turned to face the party again. "Now, do you get the key back before they left, or do we need to find a different way inside?"  
  
Sebastian smiled at her, just a little, _he still has the key_ , and she found herself wondering if anyone would really notice if they found a quiet corner while they were exploring the Chateau, a pantry or a closet or a disused hallway. Luise was presumably already in trouble. Would an extra candlemark or two really make a difference?  
  
 _Considering the sort of damage my sister can cause in just a few minutes? Probably yes._  
  


* * *

  
  
They did not make it back before dawn.  
  
And she'd even refrained from attempting to molest Sebastian in a dark corner somewhere. Such a shame, that would've been a much better way to spend the morning.  
  
But Keran pretended to yawn and order more tea and toast and pointedly ignored their desperate need to clean their armour and even more pointedly refused to ask any questions.  
  
 _Can't tell the Knight-Commander anything if he doesn't know?_  
  
"Smart lad." Sebastian spoke up softly beside her, a tilt of his chin indicating Keran when she glanced at him. He'd been thinking the same thing she had, or recognized the thought when she had it. She looked down at the bench between them, sliding her hand slowly across the upholstery, just enough the side of her fingers brushed against his.   
  
It would have been embarrassing how that simple touch made her heart ache, how she couldn't look away as he shifted his hand just enough to lay his fingers atop hers, except she was close enough to hear his breath catch, almost close enough to imagine she could feel his heart ache along with hers.  
  
She wanted to touch him properly, lean against his shoulder, wrap her arms around him.  
  
But she couldn't bear the thought of Keran's eyes seeing it and thinking her relationship with Sebastian was anything like her experiences in the Circle, acts of pride and lust and control and politics. Or even worse, if he saw the difference, and censure or pity crossed his face.  
  
Besides, Luise would over-react. And then she'd spend this last fleeting moment explaining herself to her sister, instead of listening to that catch of breath and tracing the line of knuckles and callouses and nails with her eyes.   
  
That was much too high a price to pay.  
  
Still tempting though.  
  
"We best be leaving, before too many rumors catch up to me and stick to you two as well," Luise sighed as she put down her tea, brushed the crumbs of her toast off her fingers and lap. "Wouldn't want life in the Gallows to be any more awful than necessary."  
  
"I think we'll manage," Bethany shrugged. "We'll have to stay 'til the laundry's done, so there's no more wyvern blood on my robes, after all. If you're far away by nightfall, and everyone sees us leave tomorrow?"  
  
Luise nodded slowly.  
  
Sebastian's fingers tightened around her hand.   
  
_I don't want to say good-bye. Not again._  
  
But they did, of course, shadowed eyes and quiet words and both of them desperate to touch and desperate not to give themselves away, an uneasy balance of conflicting needs and the sharp edge of her breath once the door closed behind them.  
  
She didn't want to go back to the Gallows, be surrounded by reminders of all the choices they'd both made that kept pushing them further and further apart. As if being born a mage and a noble wouldn't have made things difficult enough.  
  
And yet.  
  
The impossible had already happened; she'd seen him. Touched him. She couldn't seem to convince herself not to consider the possibility that it would happen again. Couldn't prevent the hope that some of her sister's ridiculous ability to turn fate on its ear was Hawke trait, instead of a Luise one; maybe Bethany had some of it too. Perhaps destiny would finally turn in her favor some day.  
  
And if not, the memory of his weight above her, the press of his chest and the touch of his hands, the feel of his lips and the caress of his breath, the way his voice savored her name and the heat of his cock filled her, that one flawless moment when her whole world had just been him, everywhere around her, would have to suffice to keep her warm at night.  
  
She quite thought it would be highly effective, even behind thick cold stone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part seven: legacy**

Hawke's blood.  
  
They'd been after Hawke's blood.  
  
It was only sheer luck that they'd all been there, a habit born during the first few months after Leandra died, when they'd come to the Estate to play cards because Hawke refused to be dragged out into the world, too much pain and blood and guilt to face the sunlight.  
  
Or even the smog of a Kirkwall evening on the way to The Hanged Man.  
  
They'd kept it up after the Arishok died, when she was recuperating from her injuries, enough of a hobble in her step to make travelling difficult.  Kept it up for the next three years, distracting her from thinking too much about the people who weren't there anymore, father and brother and sister and mother and lover.  
  
Her lover was back now, but it was a comfort and a routine that no one wanted to lose.  
  
So still they came, Isabela and her cards, Varric and his stories, Anders and his papers, Fenris and his wine, Merrill and her questions, and Aveline, strong and quiet and always, _always_ , there.  Sebastian wasn't quite sure what he brought to the group, to be honest, but still he came as well, an extra hand, an extra voice, an extra story in the night, to keep Hawke entertained.  
  
And if sometimes he saw Bethany in the turn of her head or the wave of her hand, he was the only one who knew, the only one to savor the ache of the familiar and the lost.  
  
Until now, when crazed dwarves had come seeking Hawke blood.  
  
"There's someone else with Hawke blood, still."  He'd staggered past the last of them, bodies in her foyer, he hadn't even salvaged his arrows, _no time, what if they found a way past the harbor's waters?_  
  
He'd been about to grab Hawke's shoulders, shake her, yell at her, but her eyes widened a step before he'd reached her, and she spun around and sprinted out the door, her whispered "Bethany" enough to send them all after her, heavy boots against the cobbles of the Hightown Court beyond her door.  
  
The Gallows was a shambles.  They hadn't made it in, but the simple fact they'd tried, had managed to hold their own against the Templars, even for just awhile, only one dead body left behind before they fled, was enough to rouse the Knight-Commanders wrath.  
  
Hawke's anger was fire to Meredith's ice, fierce and fast and brilliant, impossible to pin down, even with the weight of Meredith's power and experience and determination.  
  
Sebastian was not remotely sure how she'd managed it, even though he'd watched every word, every gesture, every shift in stance and expression, but when they left to track the attackers down, Bethany came with them.  
  
And then he watched her go behind tall walls without him again, following her sister to the rooms they had at the Hanged Man for the night, giving everyone time to pack and for Varric to confirm a few rumors before they headed out toward the Vinmarks in the morning.  
  
"I've been meaning to ask you for years, Choir Boy. However did you convince the Templars to let you in after Leandra died?"  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about."  As Sebastian was perfectly well aware he hadn't quite managed to take his eyes off Bethany for a moment, he doubted he was very convincing, but it seemed worth making the attempt.  
  
Varric snorted.   _Obviously even less convincing than I'd hoped._  "No shit, that's your best response?  Should I ask Hawke, then?"  
  
"Hawke doesn't know."  
  
"Choir Boy."  Varric's voice was uncharacteristically serious, and even almost kind.  It wasn't a tone he aimed in Sebastian's direction very often, though Sebastian had frequently heard it for Merrill.  It was enough to make him blink and turn towards the dwarf beside him.  "Even Hawke's going to notice if you keep staring at Sunshine like she's the last breath of air for a drowning man when we get on the road tomorrow.  Distract yourself.  Tell me a story I don't know."  
  
Sebastian blinked, and made himself think of something besides the shift of Bethany's hair against her neck, _she'd cut it shorter than usual,_ the graceful lines of hips and hands and neck as she'd smoothed her robes and lifted her head to breathe deep after her first step beyond the Gallow's walls, attempted to pay attention to Varric instead.  "Am I that obvious?"  
  
"You were worried about our Sunshine before Hawke lifted her head from her last kill.  Hard to be more protective than our fearless leader."  
  
"Ah."  Sebastian sighed softly.  An extended trip with everyone watching.  That was likely to be ... interesting.    
  
"So?"  
  
"Um."  He shrugged, turned around and walked a bit, before picking a handy wall to lean against, pretending the Lowtown night was cool and soothing rather than dank and liable to try and kill them any minute.  "It wasn't that difficult.  Vael.  Former-Brother.  Glared down my nose a bit, got in to see the Knight-Captain."  
  
"We've done some work for Cullen," Varric pointed out, a shift of his shoulders as he watched Sebastian closely.  "He's not that impressed by titles."  
  
"No, no he's not."  Sebastian almost smiled.  If he wasn't keeping Bethany locked up, Sebastian rather thought he'd like the man.  "But I reminded him that I'd helped with death duties, in the Chantry, and did he know that Ser Emeric had been right, all those moons ago, and perhaps having a templar be the one to tell her her mother was killed was not the wisest or kindest of plans?"  
  
 _Remind everyone that perhaps they could've done something, if they hadn't been so determined to hide his concerns._  
  
"Ouch."  Sebastian wasn't quite sure if Varric meant his choice of methods, or the hard glint they both could hear in his voice even now, years later.  "Remind me to have you come to the next open Guild Meeting to glare down some of the more stupid arguments, huh?  Give me a bit of a break."  
  
At that Sebastian did manage an actual smile.  "I am always willing to be of assistance, you know that.  But I may, perhaps, be slightly terrified of your Merchant's Guild, after years of hearing you complain of them."  
  
"Face your fears Choir Boy.  It's good for you."  
  
"Oh, is that why you almost never actually go to the meetings yourself?"  
  
"Who's afraid?"  Varric spread his hands wide, his grin equally broad and expressive.  "I'm just worried they'll be stupid enough Bianca will lose her temper and shoot a few of them."  
  
Sebastian chuckled softly and shook his head.  "Truly, Varric."  He lifted his head, feeling his breath settle in his chest as he looked at the dwarf.  "How did you know?"  
  
"I didn't, at first."  Varric shrugged, as close to an awkward gesture as Sebastian had ever seen him make.  "But you went the wrong way when you left the Estate after we brought Hawke home, after Leandra.  And you never talk of your adventure at Chateau Haine, even when Hawke does.  And your eyes go very still, sometimes, when Hawke smiles.  And I may not have seen Sunshine in years, but I do remember her smile.  Just like her sister's."  
  
Sebastian sighed again, memories of her whispers and her laughter through the screen of the booth.  The sound of her voice, thick with pain or tears.  Many more tears than he would have liked, and not nearly enough smiles to redeem them.  "You are much too smart for anyone else's good, aren't you?"  
  
"'Course I am.  Been telling you that for years."  
  
Sebastian pushed away from the wall, taking a step or two closer to Varric.  "Are you going to tell Hawke?"  
  
"Hawke's a smart woman, you know that.  Once the first rush of "Thank the Maker my baby sister's alright" wears off, she's probably going to notice you staring at said baby sister."  
  
"She didn't last time?"  Sebastian raised his eyebrows.  He didn't really buy that, even.  Last time she'd been distracted by thieves and qunari and orlesians.  Last time he'd been haunted by dreams of skin and lips, rather than one perfect memory.    
  
He doubted fighting crazy dwarves would separate them enough she'd fail to pick up on it this time.  
  
Varric rolled his eyes.  "I hate to say so out loud, but you're smarter than that."  
  
"Well." _Shit._  
  
"Pretty much."  Varric closed the last step between them, and gave Sebastian something that might have been a friendly smack on arm.  And might have been a 'friendly' reminder about how strong he was and how fond of Sunshine.  "Good luck, Choir Boy."  
  
"Thank you?" Sebastian whispered, but Varric was already inside The Hanged Man, heading for his own suite, leaving Sebastian alone in the soot and the quiet of the empty market.    
  
Interesting probably wasn't even going to be the half of it.


	21. Chapter 21

All night, as she tried to sleep, Bethany reminded herself that there were more important things going on than seeing Sebastian again.   
  
Seeing everyone else. Some sort of dwarven cult out for their blood. Keeping her sister alive. She had a feeling she was going to forget all those clever reminders and do something stupid in the morning however. She wasn't sure she cared. Being gloriously stupid was a well honored Hawke tradition, wasn't it?   
  
Anders seemed to be trying to beat them out though. She wasn't sure quite what, or how, but impending doom seemed to be hovering over his shoulders, dangling its smoky fingers in his pauldrons.   
  
It had hurt, seeing him like that. He was too thin, too brittle, something manic hovering behind his eyes. But he was still Anders, underneath it all, a hidden sense of humor, a not so hidden sense of all the things he'd lost. He'd managed to slip her away from her sister, for just a breath, a smile on his lips, though it wasn't a particularly happy one.   
  
"Circle life treating you well, is it?" Tension in his jaw, poorly banked fury, a hint of blue behind his eyes. She'd just shrugged, unable to come up with words when confronted with the differences from the man she'd known almost seven years ago, and he'd slipped uneasily back to join the rest of the group, letting her sister take his place by her side again.  
  
Luise had just shaken her head when Bethany looked at her, eyes wide, avoiding the questions about Anders. Presumably because she didn't have any answers.  
  
Fenris at least was looking better. Isabela flirted and he smirked and Luise rolled her eyes. He'd had an entire conversation with Aveline about her husband, and cards, and the state of 'his' mansion, and no one had growled or gotten angry even once. She thought she'd seen him smile. And Aveline had almost laughed.  
  
His shoulders were not as tight as she'd remembered, nor his eyebrows or his fists.  
  
They were mostly happy, her sister's friends, strong and settled.  
  
 _They were my friends as well, once upon a time. Are they still?_  
  
She wasn't sure.  
  
The rest of them seemed much the same. Varric and Merrill, storyteller and listener, though they both seemed a bit more sad than she remembered. Aveline, solid and strong and unyielding and all the prettier for it. Isabela still the swaggering pirate, though Bethany had caught a glimpse of a smile, when Luise wasn't looking, that was softer than any she'd ever expected.  
  
She wondered if her own face did that, when she looked at Sebastian.  
  
Probably.  
  
 _The question is, do I try to hide it? Or take this one chance I may have to ..._  
  
Even by herself, one dark room and a warm bed, she wasn't quite sure how to finish the thought. What did she think she could have, tomorrow?


	22. Chapter 22

_Everything._  
  
Sebastian saw it in her eyes that very first instant they met at the Gate out of Kirkwall, the flicker of her gaze as she saw everyone else so very carefully not looking at them, Hawke turning to respond to something Isabela said behind her, and he was trying so desperately not to smile, not to stare, but with so much focus on his face he forgot about his feet, and he took a step towards her.  
  
And something in her oh-so-practiced mask cracked, and she ran the few steps left, light and quick, to fall against his shoulder, her weight heavy behind his neck as she wrapped her arms around him.  They were ever so slightly off balance, as she had aimed for his left side to avoid the worse edges of his breastplate and for a half a moment he quite hated his armor, but then he closed his eyes and sighed, his arms around her as well, holding her as close as he could get her, her body pressed against him so that she was barely still balanced on her toes, her hair against his cheek and the warm scent of her skin filling each breath, and he couldn't hate anything at all.  
  
Especially once she kissed him, warm and slow, the hum of her breath inside his mouth, the shock he could feel all the way down his spine as their tongues slid together.  
  
"What are doing with my sister?"  He'd never heard Hawke stutter before, and she didn't quite now, but it seemed a very close thing, a quaver in her voice and the sound of her stride uneven against the ground.    
  
"Whatever she would have me do."  His voice was quiet against Bethany's lips, his eyelashes just brushing against her cheeks.  He didn't think anyone else heard him.  
  
He was sure they all heard her laugh in response, however, warm and rich and positively sultry.  He'd never heard her laugh like that, a caress of sound and heat that made him tighten his arms and sigh against her.    
  
"Oh, if we lived in a world where I could ask such things of you."  Her voice was even softer than his had been, so soft he could barely hear it, barely feel her breath against his ear, but it was enough to recognize the sentiment, the ache in his chest that echoed his very first breath in the morning when he woke, that washed his dreams with tones as warm and rich as her skin and eyes.  
  
"It seems pretty obvious she just gave him a surprising amount of tongue for our little Sunshine, so the question is probably more what is your little sister doing to our poor Choir Boy?"  Isabela sounded more amused than not, but she wasn't the one he was worried about.  
  
Bethany slid down between his arms, her weight settling back on her feet, and he let her go so they could turn to face Hawke.  At which point Bethany giggled at the stunned expression on her face, half confusion and half anger and half landed fish, _and yes that is too many halves by far_ , and he turned his head to hide his face in Bethany's hair so he wouldn't laugh himself.  
  
Hawke might handle Bethany laughing, but she'd probably want to hit him for it.  And he'd seen her hit other people.  That would hurt.  A lot.    
  
"I don't think you need to worry about who I'm kissing, sister.  Let's worry about who's trying to kill us instead, shall we?"  Bethany grinned and turned around and started walking, and Sebastian found himself offering the slightest of shrugs in Hawke's direction before he followed her.  
  
She'd corner them later, he was sure, when they could pretend everyone else wasn't hanging on every single word.  
  
 _Speaking of everyone else, they're not likely to wait._  
  
Varric just rolled his eyes at them.  Merrill grinned.  Apparently she thought they were cute.  Aveline sighed and shook her head, but she almost smiled.  Or, at least she didn't scowl.  That was a good sign.  
  
Fenris caught Sebastian's eye and lifted an eyebrow.  It was amazing how expressive he could be with the slightest shift across his face.  
  
 _Do you know what you're getting into?_  
  
Sebastian smiled at him. _I think so._  
  
Fenris' eyes widened, _are you sure?,_ and he tilted his chin down, just a little.   _Do you know about her history with me?_  
  
Sebastian nodded.  Fenris' second eyebrow lifted to join the first, _surprise_ , and then he smiled, the slightest curve of his mouth, _alright then_ , and perhaps a _good luck_ , and he turned back to watching their surroundings.  
  
Anders was less easy to please, unsurprisingly, stiff shoulders and a dark glare, _a mage with a Chantry lackey, unacceptable_ , but when Bethany's smile turned sharp and she mentioned that Sebastian had been her confessor seven years ago, aiming one pointed glance at Anders' groin, the mage had stalked off again, pauldrons shivering just like a cat's raised hackles.  
  
Sebastian enjoyed that more than he should've, he and Anders never had managed to get along, but he felt a touch guilty when he heard Bethany sigh.  "I know he was your friend.  I'm sorry."  
  
She shrugged.  "I don't know why I thought things would be the same when I stepped out of the Gallows.  It's been years.  But time doesn't quite pass the same way, in there."  
  
He was still trying to decide what to say to that, _time hasn't quite passed like it used to for me, either_ , when Isabela slithered her way in-between them, one arm draped over each of their shoulders.  
  
"Sweet things," she purred, "such mysteries you're holding on to!  I didn't even know you'd met, beyond Hawke's little orlesian adventure.  And she didn't mention anything about kissing then.  Tell me all the details, yes?"  
  
Bethany's lips twitched, and Sebastian found himself wondering if she would, really, tell _all_ the details.  "Whatever do you mean, Isabela?  You'll have to be more specific."  
  
"Kissing, darling!  Is he good at it?  Are you?"  Isabela leaned in closer to Bethany, her voice dropping until it was just a rough whisper.  "How many people do you have to compare him to, though, that's really what you ought to tell me.  As I think your sister is rather startled by the sudden realization you're not the same little girl who used to follow her around in braids."  
  
Young Bethany in braids was an adorable thought, right up until his brain suggested current Bethany in nothing but braids and he was struck by the sudden urge to trip Isabela and run away with Bethany and never return home again.  
  
Or at the very least find a handy inn and hide behind locked doors for a sennight, at the absolute minimum.  
  
"I haven't actually managed my usual comparison," Bethany shrugged, one quick glance past Isabela to Sebastian.  "Yet."  
  
He stumbled, memories of _'I do so like to swallow'_ , and _'you are the only one preventing yourself from feeling my lips around your cock'_ in Bethany's dark whisper being the sort of thing it was hard not to react to, a throb between his legs and heat across his cheeks.  
  
He could feel Isabela breathe beside him, an almost pause before lifted eyebrows and a bit of a smile.  "And now I think I suddenly understand Kitten's forlorn expression when human stories don't quite make sense.  I just missed something dirty, didn't I?"  
  
"Perhaps."  Bethany was smiling, he could just see the curve of her cheek out of the corner of his eye.  He didn't think he was going to manage proper words for another moment or so, still thinking more with his cock than his brain, so he just tried not to grunt.  Or whimper.  
  
"And don't think I didn't notice you failed to answer a single one of my questions."  Isabela leaned sideways, bumping against Bethany's shoulder before turning to Sebastian.  "Maybe you'll answer them for me, instead?"  
  
"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, Isabela."  His voice was, perhaps, a little strangled sounding, but he was quite proud he'd finagled an entire sentence.  
  
"Oh, you'll be telling someone I think, gentleman or not."  Isabela winked, her smile turning a touch more wicked than was comfortable, _not that Isabela is ever trying for comfortable,_ and she sauntered away again, back to Hawke's side.  
  
Hawke was going to hurt him, wasn't she?  
  
Bethany slid her arm back in his, the shift of her hips almost brushing against his side, her smile warm as she glanced up at him, and he admired the way the sunlight sank into her hair, the heat of her skin and eyes, remembered that 'yet', and realized he didn't care.  
  
He was even, perhaps, feeling a little kindly towards crazed murderous dwarves for giving them this moment, however much it would hurt when it was over.    
  
Not that he'd admit that out loud.    
  
Especially not to Hawke.


	23. Chapter 23

At the time, it was horrible. Dank and dark and nightmares and ghosts and poor Anders breaking and refusing to let anyone help him put himself back together.  
  
Her father's voice, praying not to have a mage-born child.  
  
 _Guess I disappointed him there._  
  
She was just so very angry, angry enough she could feel it all the way to her fingertips, trembling and hot and tight. He'd spent her whole life teaching her to be grateful for their care, their love, _her safety_ , refusing to let her be angry or bitter or lost, and then, to hear it in his voice, that same hopeless edge she'd always had to hide, was almost more than she could stand.  
  
If he'd still been alive she'd have hit him.  
  
And then hugged him and cried all over his shoulders, because Maker, she missed him, and Carver, and mother.  
  
But after it all, when Luise and Sebastian had oh so reluctantly handed her back over to Templar care, all she could remember was them.  
  
Luise trying so very hard to assure her that Father had loved her. Talking to her when they made camp, about mother, and Isabela, and Sebastian, and _Carver_ , oh how she'd missed being able to think about Carver. Luise standing fiercely between her and the Wardens, loving her even when she didn't understand her.  
  
Sebastian's hands lifting her up, his lips soft against her skin. She'd never had to hide from him. Even when she'd hated him, even when he refused to be her confessor, he'd never made her lie to him. He'd never been shocked by her anger, or her behavior.  
  
She wasn't sure she could do this anymore, be in here while he was out there, especially not now she knew how he felt, had memories instead of dreams to fill her thoughts.  
  
He'd flirted with her, soft and charming, Varric laughing in the background, until even Luise smiled.  
  
He'd kissed her in the dark, every chance he got. Sometimes a brush across her hand, or cheek, soft and fleeting. Sometimes he found her lips, warm and soft, holding the connection until she sighed.  
  
Other times, all heat and desperation, tongues and teeth and hands on skin. There was seldom much privacy underground, no quiet night unbroken by company or turns at watch, so they grabbed what few moments they could, fiercely clinging to each other.  
  
She knew now what his cock felt like on her tongue, the burn as as she swallowed him deep.  
  
She knew what he could do with his tongue between her legs, her thigh braced on his shoulder as she muffled her cries with her hand.  
  
 _Maker's Breath_ , she swallowed a sob, hand curling against the wall beside her door, forehead coming to rest on the smooth plastered stone a moment later. She'd kept mostly to herself since she got back, and this was why, this ache, these memories, so vivid in comparison to the dim light of the Gallow's halls.  
  
 _The rasp of the cave wall behind her back, even through her robes, his arms beneath her thighs, holding her up, holding her open, the shift of his hips as he filled her, so hard, so deep, his body pressed against her, heavy and hot, rubbing against her breasts, her clit, her body on fire, tense and aching, her breath uneven until she jerked, ragged and rough as his name spilled from her lips and her hands clenched around his shoulders and neck, pleasure and pain and everything she'd never thought she'd have._  
  
And only did have shrouded in secrecy and darkness, hiding amongst monsters and murderers, covered in the stench of blood magic.  
  
It was probably best she stay quiet. Avoid arousing any more suspicions than necessary. Not that the Knight-Commander wasn't keeping all of them on a particularly tight leash lately. Something was going to give any day now, someone was going to break, rage or pain or frustrated desire, and people were going to die.  
  
Dangerous, to make mages or templars so very desperate.  
  
She couldn't quite make herself care about those hypothetical deaths, caught instead in the very real truth that she didn't have enough hope left to believe she'd ever see him again. And if this was all there was going to be, cold walls and colder armor, no air, no life, no light, no love ... what was the point in trying any longer?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **part eight: aftermath**

It wasn't enough.  
  
The abomination dead, his blood dark and still beneath him, and all he could hear was that sound, the crack of stone and heat and his own ragged soul as Kirkwall shattered.  There were voices around him, but he wasn't listening, staring at the dead body at his feet, watching carefully, making sure there was no lingering trace of blue, no last minute surge of power from the Fade to save him from his fate.  
  
 _Stay dead.  Dead for everyone you killed.  Pay for it.  End for it._  
  
"Sebastian!"  That shout got through, if only because there was a hand on his gorget, blood and soot smearing from the leather of her glove onto the clean edges of the metal as Hawke yanked him around to look at her.  "Meredith's going after the Circle, get your head out of your arse and _help me_."  
  
It took a moment for her growl to turn into words, the words into sense, but when they did his eyes widened, and he saw her smile as she watched him catch up with her.  It was not a pretty smile, a flash of teeth between tight lips.  
  
It sharpened even more as he bared his own teeth in something closer to a snarl than an answering smile.   _Bethany.  She's not getting Bethany_.    
  
"There's the Vael I need.  Come on then."  
  
***  
  
They were winning.  Not easily, not well, but _Bethany is here, we're alive, they're not taking her_ , no one was as good at standing their ground as Hawke.  
  
Well, maybe Aveline.   _Messere Shield Wall._  He could hear Isabela's laugh in his head, for all she was swearing under her breath a few steps away in reality.  But Aveline was using the Guard to keep the rest of Kirkwall as safe as possible, considering.  The best she'd been able to offer was to keep them all away from the Gallows.  
  
It was enough.  
  
It had to be enough.  
  
 _My family._  
  
 _Elthina._  
  
 _Maker, I will hunt you down beyond Your City and drag You to the Void myself, if You take her too._  
  
He could feel the edges of hysteria snickering along the edges of his thoughts, but that was better than losing it completely, fire and rage and terror, so he decided to go along with it.  It seemed to work for Hawke, after all, dancing the edge of crazy just long enough to make sure everyone else died first.  He felt a bit more appreciative of that than usual.  
  
He'd appreciate anything, today, that meant Bethany would still be standing at the end of it.


	25. Chapter 25

_"Quentin"_  
  
That had been the name Orsino had said, before he'd given in, despair and rage and a brutal loss of faith.  
  
Bethany didn't recognize it, but Luise had, stunned still and furious for just an instant.  
  
Sebastian had, a shadow in his eyes as he pulled Luise back from the swell of blood magic.  
  
It was only after they'd defeated the monster he'd become, blood everywhere, _Maker, so much blood_ , and Luise kept swinging her sword, as if she needed to break him down until there wasn't a solid piece of Orsino left, that Bethany had a chance to wonder what it meant.  
  
What could have driven her sister so far past even her usual reckless violence.  
  
Sebastian was the one who approached her, slow and steady and stomping his feet unusually loudly, which squelched as he lifted his feet, _so very much blood_.   
  
"Meredith's still coming after the Circle." His voice was soft enough Bethany could barely hear it, but she was watching his mouth move, the shape of his lips, and she knew precisely what he sounded like, a rasp of exhaustion thickening his voice. "Do I need to tell you to get your head out of your arse and help me now, or will you believe me when I tell you that you've killed him?"  
  
Bethany tensed, almost moved forward, _no one talks to Luise like that_ , but instead of a slam of steel or fist against him Luise threw back her head with a short sharp crack of laughter, and let her arm fall to her side, her sword almost scraping through the blood to the stone beneath. She even smiled at Sebastian, though it was cruel and predatory and had too many teeth. "My sister has better taste than I realized. Let's go kill a Knight-Commander for her, shall we?"  
  
Bethany wasn't sure if she'd expected him to argue, to try and soften her words a little, but she felt her breath catch when all he did was grin back, teeth sharp and bright beneath the spatters of blood across his face.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
 _My._  
  
Beautiful and kind and as dangerous as her sister, once he was provoked. No wonder she liked him so much. He turned and started walking towards her, and she couldn't quite seem to move now, letting him get closer, heat beneath her skin and tension all the way down to her toes, and the fact that she desperately wanted him to fuck her against the wall would probably disturb her tomorrow, _if we make it to tomorrow_ , when she'd had a chance to bathe off the blood and she wasn't trying to think on lyrium and adrenaline any more.  
  
She could feel the almost dry blood sticking between his fingers and her chin when he touched her, but she didn't care because he lifted her chin just enough to kiss her, his lips on hers and his tongue in her mouth and his breath in her lungs and she'd always want him to fuck her against the wall despite the blood, and in her bath tomorrow, and her bed the day after, and she didn't think she'd ever stop wanting.  
  
 _Maybe once we're dead._  
  
"Marry me."  
  
His voice was a whisper against her skin, his words almost tangible upon her lips, and she had to blink again to follow what he'd said.  
  
 _Mages can't get married._  
  
 _We're all going to die._  
  
 _There's blood in my Maker-forsaken-eyelashes._  
  
She couldn't ignore the lurch in her chest, the smile she felt lifting her cheeks. _At least it isn't your blood. Or mine._ She lifted a hand, fingers gently resting on his cheek, feeling his skin beneath her fingertips, watching the way his head tilted ever so slightly into her touch. It was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible.  
  
"Yes."  
  
She didn't need her heart anymore. It broke as he smiled, and she gave the pieces to him to keep, because all she could ever need would be that look in his eyes the moment before he kissed her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, as we've reached the end, a special thanks to the wonderful people who took a look and poked at my brain when I got stuck, and promised that my brain playing tricks on me actually worked and it was good. Thank you very much, [seimasin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin), [phdfan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phdfan), [yarnandtea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnandtea), and [sia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sia). <3


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